


A Vow Without Honor

by BeyondTheHorizonIsHope



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Added Stark Sibling, Eventual Romance, F/M, Family Feels, Family Fluff, Hate to Love, House Lannister, House Stark, Hurt/Comfort, Mild Language, Mistaken Identity, Oaths & Vows, Original Character(s), Originally Posted on FanFiction.Net, Politics, Robb Stark Twin, Slow Burn, Violence, like the slowest of burns
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-19
Updated: 2019-08-23
Packaged: 2019-09-22 16:09:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 32
Words: 187,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17062847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeyondTheHorizonIsHope/pseuds/BeyondTheHorizonIsHope
Summary: "I made a promise to protect you. Honor or not, that is one I intend to keep." - A story of a Lion and a Wolf, two beings brought together by the very same reasons that should have kept them apart.





	1. Prologue: The Twins

**Author's Note:**

> This prologue is a flashforward. All following chapters will go back to season one. 
> 
> This work is originally published on FF under the same name, as well as Wattpad.

* * *

_The painful warrior famoused for fight,_  
_After a thousand victories once foiled,_  
 _Is from the book of honour razed quite,_  
 _And all the rest forgot for which he toiled._

-William Shakespeare  
Sonnet 25

* * *

 

**Prologue  
**The Twins

**Jaime**

Jaime Lannister had never been a patient man. He was not one to stand on formalities; he preferred the straightforward approach, although that often involved his sword and a good deal of blood. Considering the recent events at The Twins, his method may not have even been regarded as unconventional. Run of the mill maybe. A kingslayer could fit in well with this lot.

Standing in the middle of the dining hall with Brienne, Jaime watched a handful of Freys argue amongst themselves. Edwyn Frey had introduced himself when their caravan had first approached as the rightful Lord of the Crossing, but near an hour later, a Walton, an Emmon, and several other Walders had jumped in claiming their own importance. Their argument had reached extraordinary levels, echoing so loud through the empty chambers that dust had begun to fall from the rafters above. Jaime had stopped following it a long time ago, lost from the moment that he was told the Late Walder Frey was no longer in command.

"Yes, Ser Jaime, it is true." Lothar Frey had spoken solemnly. The beady eyed steward of The Twins, he seemed to be the only Frey who had a good grasp upon what was actually going on. "Not four days past, our Father departed. It was a gruesome sight, to be certain."

Jaime had pressed him on the matter, but got no other answers save for curses and bad luck.

He observed the hall while the Freys bickered. It was dark and dank, like so much of the Crossing, and if he squinted, Jaime could still make out the stains of pooled blood across the floor. So this was the place where The King in the North had lost the war. No, that was not right. He had lost it the moment he married that foreign girl and broken his oath to Walder Frey.

_You Starks always spoke of your honor, but you never did have much when it came to your women._

Robb's queen had been murdered along with him, stabbed in the belly with her babe, and his mother had her throat slit after doing the same to Walder's wife. All of his forces were slain and his was family gone, save for two: one safely tucked away in the south and one here, but not for much longer if he had his way.

"This is getting us nowhere," Brienne mumbled. She stood straight and tall in her armor, as usual, and looked twice the knight that he did at the moment. His armor scarcely fit him anymore. His hair, while cleaned and brushed, still had a sort of dull look to it and his face had yet to be shaved, much to Cersei's disappointment. Strangely, he had found himself not giving a damn about that.

And then there was the matter of his missing hand.

His ghost fingers itched. They longed for the cold feel of steel and the weight of a well-balanced sword. If only he could oblige them. Instead, the scabbard hung on the wrong side. The hand that grasped the hilt was feeble and fumbled in its motions. To just hold the sword in his left hand might tip him over on the spot. That would certainly make things interesting.

"What are you doing?" Brienne hissed. She almost sounded concerned. Maybe he was growing on her after all. "Your hand…they'll know you've no skill with it."

"Speak a little louder and they might," Jaime retorted, though they could have been yelling and the Freys would have been none the wiser. "This lot couldn't tell a swordsman from a wench, though I suppose in your case that doesn't matter."

On any other day, the look on Brienne's face would have entertained him, but his mind was elsewhere at the moment. There was someone waiting for him in the dungeons, a lone wolf, a vow waiting to be fulfilled. He'd be damned if they had come through this much only to be held up by the bickering of old men.

"You like to call me Kingslayer, now let the title do its work."

He strode toward the dais, cool and confident as was his way. His left hand remained secured to his sword, though holding it across his body felt awkward as he moved. The stump hovered over the hilt as well. It must have made for an odd sight. He ignored the thought, determined to portray the Kingslayer once again, even if he had forgotten how.

Had they taken his hand or his mind?

Jaime stopped just behind…Walder was it? Frankly, he couldn't tell, and he didn't care to. They were all equally ugly and weasel-like.

"As interested as I am in your familial matters, would someone show me the kindness of promptly shutting up and showing me to the dungeons?" There was an edge in his voice, sharp and cold as ice. It brought a swift end to the argument, though the silence lasted longer than his patience cared for. "I'm more than happy to look for it myself, even if I have to tear this place down brick by brick."

One gulped. "Well, you see, Ser Jaime…your, uh…"

"Your Lord Father promised us the prisoners," Edwyn finished, giving the other Frey a hard look.

"I don't want all of them, just the Stark."

"She's a prisoner, same as the others. She was to be our father's new bride."

_So he could call himself King, no doubt._  Jaime felt his ghost fingers clench.

"Now Bolton wants her for his bastard."

Emmon snorted. "Too fine a deal for the wolf bitch."

Suddenly, the Frey found a sword to his neck. Jaime did not realize it was his until he felt the full weight of it on his outstretched arm. It had moved with the dexterity of his right, efficient and deadly, though if asked to repeat the motion, Jaime knew he would fail terribly. There was something about blinding rage that made the impossible happen.

"Speak of her like that again and Lady Joyeuse won't be the only Frey with a slit throat."

Edwyn paled. "You would dare draw against us in our home? Have you lost all sense?"

"No, just my hand and my patience. Now take me to the girl."

One of the Walders narrowed his eyes. "Might be we throw you in with her."

"I'm certain my father would be overjoyed to hear that. Tell me, how long do you think the Twins will last against the entire might of the Lannister army? A week? A month? Hard to tell really, but you will all die, that much I can promise." It was not a card he liked to play, using the power of his father, but he needed to get somewhere. Maybe if he were whole he might have tried something else, but he wasn't, and never would be again, not unless she was waiting for him with a new hand. "Take me to the girl,  _now_."

* * *

Jaime hadn't thought any particular part of the Twins could be darker or danker than the last, but he supposed the dungeons would find some way. There were torches, but the continuous dripping from the walls and ceiling had all but snuffed them out, choking the air with smoke and leaving it difficult to breathe. Jaime had to squint to make sense of anything in the environment.

The cells were filled with Northmen. They all coughed and wheezed and looked far more terrible than he ever had in captivity, and half the time he'd been dragged through the mud. They, however, had been dragged through blood and bodies. Their clothes were sticky with the red stuff, and what wounds they received had gone untreated and were beginning to fester.

_This is no place for her_.  _Kind souls do not last long in this ruin._

He had to wonder how much of her soul was even left.

Lothar Frey pointed to the far cell. It, too, was filled with many bodies. They all looked up when he approached, some hissing 'Kingslayer,' a great many others simply staring with a look that could skewer a boar. Jaime ignored them as he searched for her.

A body stood in his way. It was none other than Edmure Tully, looking as distraught as all the rest. What a wedding night he must have had.

"You'll not have her."

Jaime almost laughed. Even without his sword hand, he could take the young Lord of Riverrun without even breaking a sweat. He almost said as much until a small, but commanding voice interrupted his thoughts.

"It is alright, Uncle."

A slim figure near the back rose to its feet. In near unison, so did the Northmen. The dungeons filled with a sound of shuffling as men in other cells did the same. Even while imprisoned, wounded, and at the losing end of the war, they would all stand for their Queen. Even he had to admit, there was something admirable about the stubborn loyalty of her men.

She crossed the cell silently, taking the place Edmure vacated. Behind her, the Greatjon stood, her silent, looming guardian. Though she was tall herself, she was dwarfed in comparison.

Small, pale hands appeared and removed the hood of her cloak.

"My lady," Brienne breathed, her voice a shocked whisper. It was still loud enough to cover Jaime's sudden intake of breath.

There was blood on her face still, though it appeared to have been wiped, even possibly clawed at. A small cut on her cheek was the only visible wound, but it was not the physical marks that bothered him. It was her eyes. Even the dead looked more alive than her. All the light had gone out of them, leaving naught but a deep black. Her face was tense, frown set to never move.

Myra Stark looked as cold as Winter felt.

"This is the Queen in the North, traitor, and you should address her as such," the Greatjon growled. Brienne, thankfully, said nothing. He supposed she was too shocked to. That would be a first.

Jaime never looked to neither the Greatjon nor to Brienne. His eyes never left Myra's. They couldn't.

"What are you doing here?" she asked him, voice as sharp as the sword he carried. "Have you come to mock the Queen in the North as well? To wed her and bed her and call yourself King?"

"You of all people ought to know that's not in my nature." He was beckoning the softer side of her to return, the side that had listened to him and understood despite all the circumstances surrounding them. It was the side of her that had forgiven a man who had been deemed unforgivable. It was the side he feared was as dead as her brother.

Her eyes narrowed, cool, calculating, too much like Cersei's. "No, it is not. You're only in the business of killing kings."

There had been a time when he would have shrugged off such insults, after all they had been spat at him for over fifteen years, but her words made him wince. She had not spoken to him like that, not in a long while.

"My brother was a king."

"Myra, I didn't-"

"Jaime Lannister sends his regards!" Myra spat, her voice elevated, unrecognizable. "That was what Bolton said as he plunged his sword through  _my_ brother, as they killed  _my_  good-sister, and  _my_  mother! Do not tell me you played no part, Kingslayer."

The room became deathly silent. The wounded would not cough and the living forgot to breathe.

He looked into her eyes then, truly, deeply, but even in her anger, there was no flame amidst the darkness of her irises.

Jaime sighed. "Then I won't."

Myra took a deep, ragged breath, her eyes scanning him over, not even pausing on the stump that had not been there last they saw each other.

"You have no honor, and you have no heart."

No, he did not.

He'd lost his honor all those years ago when he sliced the throat of Aerys Targaryen.

But his heart he had lost to the woman before him.


	2. The Approach

**Ned**

When word of the boy's death came, Ned knew where to find his daughter.

There was a hill not far from their home, the highest to be found before reaching the Lonely Hills in the North. On the clearest of days, it was rumored that one could spot the sea from there, but rumors were nothing more than words, and words were wind.

Still, it was where he found Myra, astride her chestnut mare, gazing at the horizon where the Narrow Sea would not rise up for many more leagues. From a distance, and with her back to him, Ned could almost mistake her for Lyanna. She looked so much like his sister, and rode nearly as well, but that was where the similarities ended. Where Lyanna was headstrong, Myra was willing to compromise; where his sister was hot-tempered, his daughter kept her calm. She was patient, obedient, and cautious, not that she did not have her moments. She was of the North after all.

"I thought I might find you here," Ned spoke as he brought his stallion to a halt beside her.

"There never have been many places to hide."

Ned turned to her, but said nothing else. She would speak when the time was right.

Myra was his eldest, older than her twin, Robb, if only by moments, though there were times he thought years separated them. While Robb still struggled with the responsibility now resting upon his shoulders, Myra had taken to it rather well and with all the grace a person could muster. To be honest, Ned had expected no less from her. She had burdened herself with duties to her family and to Winterfell long before it was ever required of her.

If the situation were not so grave, he might have smiled. There was no denying that Myra was his.

"Did he suffer?" she asked after some time. Myra's voice was a whisper, hardly louder than the wind. Her gaze had left the horizon and settled on the back of her mare's neck as she picked at the mane.

"I could not say. Lord Bolton made no mention of it."

He might have lied, told her the boy's death was quick and painless, but it was not in his nature, even for the sake of his children. The truth was always better. Besides which, his daughter could pick out a lie from leagues away. Some called it a gift; he called it growing up with brothers.

"I hope he did not. Domeric deserved better than that."

Ned paused. "Did you care for him?"

Myra was silent for a long time before she turned to him, her gray eyes glistening with unshed tears, skin reddened by the cold, evening air. Black strands of her hair clung to her face, but she seemed not to care.

"He promised to show me the sea one day, and teach me the harp if I wished to learn. Anything to please his lady wife, who must be so disappointed in her choice of a husband." Myra shook her head, a tear escaping. "The way he thought of himself made me sad, but he was sweet and gentle. I do believe I will miss him."

Nodding grimly, Ned placed a hand on his daughter's shoulder, the only comfort he could offer her on horseback. Myra rested her cheek against his fingers. He could feel her tears streak across his skin.

His daughter was a gentle soul, prone to empathize with even the hardest of characters. She wept for those she hardly knew and sought to comfort many deemed unworthy of such kindness. Truthfully, it made him worry. There were many lords who would have liked to take advantage of someone like her. And for all her strength, Ned could not be certain whether or not she would crumble in the house of a lord not near as kind.

"Am I to marry Ramsay now?" Myra spoke, breaking the thoughtful silence. She lifted her head to look at him, eyes filled with expectation and what he might have guessed was a flicker of fear. "I know he is only a bastard, but with Lord Bolton having no heirs, the king might legitimize-"

"You'll not marry Ramsay," Ned interrupted, not wanting to hear her finish the thought. She did not know the manner of the boy's death and, if the old gods smiled upon him, she never would. A being such as Ramsay Snow did not deserve the blessing of Myra as his wife, nor the blessing of any woman for that matter. "Lord Bolton will have to make do without you as a daughter."

Myra nodded, respectful, but there was no mistaking the relieved slump in her shoulders. She may not have known about the kinslaying, but the reputation of Ramsay was hard to miss.

"Who am I to marry then?"

Ned smiled at her, though there was no happiness in it. All he felt was a yearning for her to be a child again, free and uncommitted to the game all highborns played.

He lifted his hand from her shoulder, wiping away the tears on her cheeks with his thumb. "That is something to worry over another day. You are young and will be married before long, but let us leave it for now."

"I would like that very much."

He did not doubt her. Ned only wished the smile she gave him reflected more than just understanding.

"Come," he said, gripping the reins of his stallion. "Your mother'll be frozen with worry, and don't get me started on your twin."

Now he heard it, genuine happiness echoing in her light laughter. It was a good sign.

"Robb, worry? Father, I do believe you're confusing my dear brother for someone else."

Ned joined in on her laughter, the lighthearted feeling chasing away the sadness in his daughter's voice as they returned to Winterfell.

* * *

**Myra**

Had her room always looked so glum?

Myra stared at the walls, hands on her hips, debating whether or not she ought to light another candle. She had already brought so many into her room that Vayon Poole was likely convinced she intended to burn the castle down. And so many were already lit that even with all her windows open, the stench of the smoke would not thin nor would the cloud that seemed to have accumulated around her ceiling. And it would be a lie to say her eyes weren't stinging slightly.

But she did not want to be in the darkness, not this night. The castle was dark. The land was dark. Her thoughts were dark. Myra wanted something to be light, to remind her that the blackness would soon give way to the bright dawn and the warmth of something better than she could hope for. Yet for all the heat the candles and her hearth provided, there was a very real chill crawling up and down her spine.

She had not hoped for someone better than Domeric Bolton when it came to her betrothal. Her father loved her dearly and would never willingly let harm come to her, but at the end of it all they were just pieces in the never ending game. Power married power and moved down the board, whether or not happiness was content to follow. But in the Dreadfort's heir, Myra had found a shyness she had not expected and a willingness to do anything to make her comfortable, rather than just forcing her to adapt. That had sprouted the hope that everything would be fine, but then a raven bore a letter to their keep…

Dark wings, dark words, and her now darkened future.

No, she did not like the darkness at all.

"Gods, Myra, what sort of ritual are you performing in here?"

Myra turned to see Robb in the threshold of her room, his mouth agape. Jon stood just behind him, clearly debating as to whether or not he actually wanted to enter. They still wore their swords and a fine layer of sweat covered them both. Of course they had been practicing again. If they weren't eating or sleeping, they were fighting, because that was how the world should function according to them.

"The kind that teaches boys to knock before entering their sister's room." She walked over to them, scanning the hall outside. "Please tell me you didn't bring Theon as well."

"Of course not," Jon scoffed, pulling the door closed behind him. "This is a family matter."

Robb crossed his arms. "He wouldn't want to anyway. I believe his exact words were 'don't you have something better to do besides wallow in your sister's tears?'"

Myra rolled her eyes, sitting on her bed. "Doesn't he have something better to do than toss coins at the whorehouse?"

Jon snorted and Robb smiled, both moving to sit on either side of her.

They were an odd sort of trio, the twins and the half-brother.

Robb and Myra looked nearly nothing alike. Where she had all the coloring of the North, her brother clearly took after the Tully side of the family, with his red hair and bright, blue eyes. In fact, the only attestation to their relationship was their similar height and uncanny ability to know what the other was thinking. They often finished each other's sentences and had conversations involving only eye contact and the occasional head nod.

Jon, on the other hand, was the boy people often mistook for Myra's twin. Same look, same height, and the same gloomy disposition when left thinking for too long, Myra and Jon found themselves acting more and more like each other than she and Robb. When she was younger, much to her mother's dismay, Myra would often cut her hair, very poorly, and dress in Jon's clothes. Only their father could ever tell them apart.

It had not occurred to her for the longest time how much their similarity hurt Jon. Here she was, a near replica of him, treated far better and given all the courtesy of a trueborn child, while he was left as nothing more than a bastard. That was when she let her hair grow and stopped stealing his clothes.

"Are you really going to make us ask?" Jon spoke after a while, interrupting Myra's thoughts.

"I'm fine," she replied, a little too fast. Both brothers gave her unconvinced looks. Myra slumped and fell back on her bed. "Really, I am."

"I don't believe you," Robb said, looking down at her.

"And why is that?"

"Because I am your twin. I know exactly how you feel."

"Then why do you need to ask?"

Robb fell down next to her. "Courtesy, I s'pose."

Myra snorted. "Courtesy from you? That's a new one, to be certain."

Jon chucked and joined his siblings, now all lying on their backs, watching the ceiling and the smoke that drifted by. Myra said nothing else. She knew her brothers would in time. They weren't ones to stay silent for long periods. Instead, she enjoyed the comfort of their presence, the sound of their breathing, the warmth of their proximity. They would not have this much longer. The days were growing colder; their summer was over.

Myra found the chill returning.

"I can see how you would be sad," Jon started. His words were slow, like he could not quite tell which to use. "He was our age, and he is already dead, but…doesn't that mean you're free as well? You weren't exactly enthusiastic about marrying him."

"And who would be?" Robb chimed in. "He was a bit odd looking."

"And pale."

"Scrawny."

"Quiet."

"And he smelled funny."

Myra sighed. "Do the two of you honestly believe insulting the dead is supposed to comfort me?"

"Absolutely not," Robb replied, stone-faced. "But it is entertaining."

Robb got an elbow in the chest for that. He shrunk away in pain, but began to laugh anyway. The other two soon followed suit, the sound far too contagious to resist. They continued for some time, remembering other funny moments and finding themselves unable to stop. Myra never wanted it to end. She did not laugh enough anymore. And she was not sure if she would have someone who could make her feel this way again.

"The point is," Jon continued when they had calmed down. "You're staying in Winterfell with us now. Aren't you relieved in some way?"

Myra turned to Jon, seeing true concern reflected in his dark eyes. He knew the truth, she just supposed he did not want to believe it. Neither did she, really.

"It's nothing permanent," she murmured, looking back to the ceiling. The smoke cast strange shadows that suddenly made her uncomfortable in the light. "I'll soon be betrothed to someone else in some other far off place. At least the Dreadfort was still in the North. Maybe this time I won't be so lucky. Maybe this time my intended will not be so kind."

The room grew cold and suddenly Myra thought she felt the anger of all the North gathering to her left and right.

"Then your intended would not know this world for much longer," Robb spoke, as serious as she'd ever seen him.

Myra paused. "You would kill for me?"

The words tasted bitter in her mouth.

Jon nodded his assent. "You're our sister, and far better than most of these lords deserve. If they refuse to see it, we'll open their eyes for them."

There was a long silence after that. Myra did not know how to react. Was she to be comforted or mortified? It was hard to tell which.

Robb smiled to her left. "Maybe Father will marry you to Theon."

Myra blanched, abruptly sitting up. "That settles it then. Farewell, my brothers. I am off to join the Silent Sisters."

"You'd never make it. You enjoy the sound of your voice too much."

She smacked Robb again before standing up; she drifted over to some of the candles burning near the doorway, blowing them out slowly.

"In all seriousness though," Robb started behind her. "We'd start a war for you, Myra."

Another candle went out, smoke stinging her eyes.

"No one is worth a war."

* * *

**Jaime**

Seven hells, he was bored.

They had been on the road for nearly a fortnight, and every league closer they drew to the North, the more insufferably bleak the landscape became. The trees were beginning to thin, as were the animals and the general population, and every time they happened upon some random, shabby inn, the frowns they met were deeper than the last. No wonder the Starks were such a glum lot.

The Queen's carriage had gotten stuck in the mud for somewhere over the twentieth time, and roughly half the caravan was participating in freeing it. The King, in his restless way, had gone off on another hunt, dragging Ser Barristan and Ser Arys with him. When the carriage was finally freed, he would be nowhere to be found, forcing them to stay the night in that very spot until he turned up drunk off his ass and dragging something furry behind his horse.

This was starting to become a daily trend and was very quickly gnawing away at what little tolerance he possessed.

He had been watching the chaos from atop his horse, men slipping in the mud and others bashing their heads on the woodwork when the carriage moved too quickly, but his eyes soon sought out the only thing of interest.

Cersei was standing a good thirty paces away from the scene, eyes scanning over every detail, calculating, her lips curved in a faint look of disgust. It did not do her beauty justice to scowl like that. Her lips should form a smile, or be softly parted, or, preferably, be thrust upon his own, filled with all the desire of two lovers bereft of each other for too long.

It took all the strength he had to not kick his stallion forward and drag her off into the woods, where they could finally be alone. At least then things would stop being so dull.

"My dear brother, you look positively enthused."

Jaime glanced over at his brother, who had somehow pulled up without him noticing. Tyrion was wearing that smirk of his, the kind he only got when everyone else was miserable.

He turned his gaze back to the carriage. "I want to kill something."

"Is there ever a time when you don't want to kill something?"

"Probably after I've killed it."

Tyrion chuckled. "Well, you certainly could have joined our good-brother on his little expedition."

Jaime snorted, eyes glimpsing at the patch of trees where he had last seen their noble King. "And leave you with all the fun here? I hardly think so."

They fell silent, listening to the groaning of the carriage as it finally broke free from the mud. There were cheers and pats among the men as they congratulated each other, but it fell silent rather quickly. No doubt they all realized it would be the same thing tomorrow.

"I don't suppose anyone wants to go looking for the King," Tyrion observed.

"I don't plan on it. He'll be halfway to Riverrun by now." Jaime looked up. "It's barely midday. The Stark words will come true before we get to their bloody castle."

"Perhaps you're right," Tyrion agreed. "Well, I am off for the remainder of the day. Plenty of business to attend to."

"And by business you mean pleasure." Jaime smirked as Tyrion began to ride off. "How do you plan on finding a whorehouse in the middle of nowhere?"

"A man of my skill always knows where to look." Tyrion stopped, turning back briefly. "Oh, but do tell me if our good-brother returns before the sun sets this time. I wouldn't want to miss the twenty paces the caravan moves before we're stuck again."

Jaime rolled his eyes, riding forward into the camp.

He trotted past dozens of Lannister and Baratheon soldiers setting up tents and starting cooking fires. A few acknowledged him, but most kept to their business. He preferred it that way. Why bother wanting anyone to look at you when it was for only one reason?

Kingslayer.

He grimaced inwardly, but outside he remained the same. It was a good trick he taught himself, never to show what he felt. Your life could hang in the balance when it came to showing your emotions. He and Cersei knew that very well.

Jaime dismounted his horse by the carriage, where he had seen his sister's golden hair disappear into earlier, handing the reins to a nearby Lannister guard. He quickly checked that the area had been thoroughly abandoned before entering.

Cersei did not even react to his entrance. She knew he was coming; she always did. Her emerald eyes were instead watching the land outside the only open window, the sunlight casting an otherworldly glow upon her skin. This was how she ought to have looked all the time. Peaceful. Beautiful. Alone with him.

"I don't suppose you know where my husband's run off to."

Jaime sat across from her. "I'm not sure he even knows."

"No, of course not. How could he? He hates travelling sober." She sighed, pulling the curtain into place. Her eyes locked on to his, a strange combination of aggravation and loneliness reflected in them. "Why does he insist on doing this to us? What possible reason could he have for dragging the entire court into the middle of nowhere?"

"He doesn't need a reason."

"He hates us."

Jaime shrugged. "I think our good King hates anything that isn't easy to kill or easy to fuck. As it just so happens, we Lannisters are both."

The corner of her mouth curved upward. "Does that include our little brother?"

"Possibly."

Cersei shook her head. There was a glint in her eyes. Laughter, mischief, lust. But instead of capitalizing on it, she moved toward the opening, ducking to go outside. She always had been paranoid. He was having none of that today.

Jaime grabbed her wrist, tugging her back until she had fallen onto his lap, nearly straddling him. "Where do you think you're going?"

"Stop it," Cersei hissed, struggling against his grip, though it was entirely useless. "They'll see."

"No one's going to see." He ran a hand through her golden locks, so much like his own. His other half. His better half. And though she still fought, her resolve was weakening. He could see it in her eyes. She loved it when he took control; she loved the danger, the thrill of it all.

Her lips tasted like honey, sweet, invigorating, demanding he take more, and Jaime did well to meet that. He felt her fingers comb through his hair and had to bite his tongue to keep from groaning. Her touch did so much to him. It was hard to keep control.

His mouth moved down her jaw, to that little part of her neck that made her sigh, and further still. When he got to the top of her dress, he began to peel back the fabric, eager to touch the skin she hid, but that was when Cersei stopped cold.

She stood abruptly, fixing her hair and composing herself at a rate he found nearly impossible. Suddenly the desire was gone, replaced with that paranoia.

"They'll see."

And then she was gone.

Jaime sighed, lying back on his seat. Unlike his dear sister, he could not recover so quickly from something like that. How she did it, he'd never know.

What he did know was that the sooner they got to Winterfell, the better.


	3. The Arrival

**Myra**

"He should have never gone."

Myra looked to her young brother, Bran, as he played with his newfound direwolf pup in front of the hearth. His effort was only half there; his mind was somewhere else.

All the Stark children had gathered in the Great Hall, to include Jon, with their little pets in tow. Sansa sat at one of the tables, tying a bow around the neck of hers. Arya was running around, trying to get her pup to fetch a stick already, though the poor thing could hardly walk without tripping over itself. Robb sat with Rickon in the back, making certain the young Stark treated his pup well. Myra and Jon sat at a different table, their own direwolves wandering around the surface.

She turned back to Jon. "He's too young."

"Robb and I were near the same age when we saw our first execution," Jon countered, blocking his albino runt from jumping off the table.

"But it's different with Bran. He's not like the two of you."

And it was true. Bran was always a happy child, summer in its purest form, but in the span of a few hours, he had aged drastically, and it broke her heart. She wanted to take him and hide him from the world, as selfish as it sounded.

"If he wants to be a knight like in those tales of his, he'll have to learn. You know Father's words."

Myra sighed. "Winter is coming."

She had never liked their house words much. They always hinted at terrible things on the horizon. Nothing good came to the North without mention of them. It took the beauty and wonder out of it all and left a cold, empty feeling in its wake. It was no wonder the rest of Westeros thought them a cold people. There appeared to be no escaping it.

Grabbing her pup, Myra made her way over to the hearth, sitting just across from Bran. Her direwolf was a little bundle of gray fur with the brightest blue eyes she had ever seen. The little creature would yip and attempt to dig into the layers of her dress. It made her smile; it was hard to believe such a tiny thing could turn into the great direwolves of legend.

"Have you got a name for yours?"

Myra looked up at Bran with a smile. "I think…Brenna might do for her."

Bran arched an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed with her choice. "Brenna?"

"Yes, Brenna," Myra repeated, lowering the pup to the floor. It began to sniff at the stone, occasionally glancing at the fire, wariness in its eyes. "We had an old hound named that, before you were born. She lurked around the stables, keeping an eye on things. Caught her fair share of thieves in her day. This little pup keeps her siblings in line, just like that hound."

She watched Bran follow the pup's movements, noting the streaks of light that ran through the fur, shimmering in the firelight. It was like the old gods had given her living metal.

"I think it's silly."

"Oh? And what great name have you given yours?"

Bran looked at her sheepishly. "He doesn't have one. Every name I think of doesn't stick. Maybe he's better off that way. Probably won't even survive."

Myra frowned, inwardly cursing the man who came down from the Wall and made her brother have to witness his execution. He'd stolen all the warmth out of Bran.

"That is the way of the world," she admitted, bringing Brenna back to her lap. "Some live, some die."

No one said anything for a while and the Great Hall was silent, save for the crackle of the fire and little growls. Rickon had fallen asleep, curled up with his pup. Robb had backed away and appeared to be whispering something to Theon, who had snuck in with a rather glum attitude. Sansa and Arya were now sitting together, not bickering with one another for the first time in ages.

"Why would he do it?" Bran asked suddenly. "Everyone knows if you leave the Night's Watch, you die, so why do it?"

Myra bit her lip, thinking, stalling. "For some people, death is kinder than living."

"Why is that?"

"I couldn't say, and I hope to never find out," she paused, offering Bran a soft smile. "I can't say seeing these things will ever be easier, but you'll come to understand them, and that is all anyone can ask of you."

Bran nodded solemnly and stood. She liked to hope that his walk looked a little less burdened, but there was no way to know how anyone truly felt. She could not be certain if that was a good or bad thing.

* * *

The day the King arrived in Winterfell was one Myra would never be able to forget, even if she wanted to. The castle had never felt so alive. Even when they had harvest feasts, there had never been such preparations made. She supposed they were simple like that in the North, but it was Robert Baratheon who would be gracing their halls this time, not sworn swords and bannermen well accustomed to the ways of the Starks. Anything that could be done was being done, even if it made little sense and did nothing more than make something look slightly prettier.

Brenna stood calmly beside Myra, already as tall as her knee, as she fussed over her dress. They'd only had the direwolves for a fortnight but they had grown much in their company. Even Bran's had survived, much to his delight, although her brother still hadn't named the poor thing. 'Hey you' was the closest he had gotten to anything permanent.

The dress she wore was a deep blue, with intricate needlework around the bodice with gray thread, and made of a thick material to block out the strong winds of the North. As far as their standards went, her choice in clothing was too complicated, but Myra had heard of the elaborate pieces the women of the South liked to wear. She had never thought of herself as someone who focused too much on vanity, but still she found the urge to leave a good impression too strong to resist.

Arya would be disappointed. Sansa would applaud. There never was any middle ground. Sometimes Myra wondered how they could all possibly be related.

She had braided a few strands of her hair, but for the most part left the long, black locks flowing freely as they pleased. It was rare that Myra ever completely put her hair up. She was no fighter and did not hold the notion of becoming one unlike Arya. It was as much a part of her outfit as her dress and shoes, and did not need to be hidden from the world.

Domeric had liked her hair down as well. She hadn't expected his ghost to have as much influence on her as he did.

"Well, what do you think?" she asked, looking down at her pup.

Blue eyes looked up at her. Brenna tilted her head this way and that, as though actually considering her question, before she yipped in what Myra could only assume was a positive response.

"You would like it. I can't recall you not liking anything of mine," Myra replied, brushing down the sides of her dress. She paused suddenly, hitting her forehead with her hand. "Gods help me, I'm actually having a conversation with an animal. Right, time to go."

Myra grabbed the cloak that hung near her door and made her way to the hall outside. She stopped just outside the threshold and turned back to her room.

"Brenna, stay here."

The direwolf whined and appeared to frown, if that was possible.

"Don't you give me that look." Myra paused and sighed. "I'm doing it again."

Finding herself running late, Myra practically bounded down the stairs and did not stop running until she had reached the postern gate, out of breath and feeling positively disheveled. Yes, she was bound to leave a wonderful impression with the royals.

"Bout time you showed up," Theon commented as she joined the gathering crowd. The Greyjoy was freshly shaven and for the first time in a while, looked to care about his appearance. "Was starting to think I'd have to drag you down myself. And who knows? You might have even enjoyed it."

Myra rolled her eyes. She had learned how to play the ward's game years ago, back when she truly believed her father would betroth them. The boy was crude, even for the North, but most things were meant in jest, a twisted sort of jest, but intended humor nonetheless. It was all a matter of stepping up to his level and beating him at it. That may have been why, out of all the Starks, she seemed to tolerate him the most. Even Robb, who treated him as a brother, had moments where he snapped.

Truly, there was a part of her that felt bad for Theon Greyjoy, a kraken forced to live with wolves, far from the sea and the isles he called home. He was a bit like Jon in that way, growing up alongside, but never truly one of them. Of course, she'd never say that out loud. Gods save the pride of young men.

She leaned in close to Theon, so only he could hear. "It's easy to think yourself a great flirt when you are the only one who practices it."

Theon snorted. "Clearly Robb doesn't tell you everything. Your twin's worse than I am."

"Whatever he's saying about me, it's a lie."

Robb and Jon approached them from the crowd. Myra had to bite on her tongue to keep from laughing, but could not help the wicked smile that formed on her face. Her brothers were not meant to be clean-shaven, that much she was certain of.

"I hadn't realized I had so many sisters," she managed to spit out before the laughter took over. Her eyes were tearing up and it was a little hard to breathe. She blamed the nerves.

Jon shook his head. "Alright, laugh it up, Myra, but you aren't exactly a wonderful sight yourself."

"Insulting a woman's looks? You're playing with fire, Snow," Theon said, eying her half-brother up.

"That's rich coming from you, Greyjoy."

Robb stepped in between the two. "Enough. Of all the days to fight, this is not one of them. The King will be here any moment."

Myra nodded, bringing herself back under control. "It was just a few words. The two of you take things far too seriously."

"Didn't you hear?" Theon asked. "We're from the North. We take everything seriously."

A horn blew overhead from one of the watch towers. The King was approaching.

The courtyard fell silent almost immediately. Everyone fell into their appropriate place, which Myra found rather odd since they had never actually practiced it before. It just came as naturally as breathing she supposed, knowing where you belonged in the realm. As it were, she did not stand by Robb as some thought she might. Rather, Myra stood at the end of the family line, keeping a close watch on Bran and…

"Where's Arya?"

Her mother voiced the concern before she could. It did not even take a quick glance around the courtyard for Myra to know her little sister was nowhere nearby. She was probably off running around Winterfell, again, wearing a strange, little disguise, again, and getting herself into all sorts of trouble…again.

It was a wonder their Septa still had hair.

"I could look for her," Myra suggested, though she knew all the knights in the Seven Kingdoms couldn't find her sister if she didn't want them to.

Just as she said the words, a spry little figure broke out from the rest, wearing an old helm that Mikken had been working on earlier. Smiles could be seen around the courtyard as her father grabbed Arya and took the helm out of her possession. Her sister proceeded to shove Bran out of the way to get her own place farther up the line.

The King arrived shortly after.

The first person she took notice of was the Prince, Joffery Baratheon, mostly because he took notice of her sister, and the two instantly exchanged looks that she was not entirely comfortable with. Robb noticed as well. Myra thought he might try to stab the boy right then and there. It made her want to laugh, seeing her brother acting protective over Sansa, and briefly she wondered if this was how he might be over any future suitor of hers. Maybe he had already been that way to Domeric.

Frankly, she could not see anything appealing about Joffrey, besides the fact that his father was King. He was a scrawny thing with nothing for lips and a mean, prideful look in his eyes, though that might have been the Lannister side showing, and he certainly looked more Lannister than Baratheon.

A large carriage slowly made its way under the portcullis, no doubt carrying the Queen and the other Baratheon children. Myra could see all the 'battle scars' from a long fought journey on the Kingsroad. No wonder it had taken them near a month to reach Winterfell.

Robert Baratheon entered next, his Kingsguard on either side of him, their white cloaks blowing in the breeze. If she had expected the Ruler of the Seven Kingdoms to look like anything, what she saw was clearly not that. King Robert was a fat man who made her feel terrible for his horse, not the man she had heard of in stories her Septa had told her a dozen times before, the man who led the rebellion, who took off after his love and destroyed the wretched Targaryen who had taken her from him. She half thought the stories were lies by looking at him.

She did not get to look long, however, for as soon as he entered, they knelt, as all good lords do for their king. They stayed that way, all staring at the mud, until out of the corner of her eye, she saw her father stand again.

Myra watched as words were exchanged between the old friends. She had never seen her father smile the way he did with King Robert. There was a certain youthfulness to it, and she wondered if her father hadn't been as glum as he was now. But he had lost everything at the beginning of the rebellion. She supposed they were lucky he smiled at all.

King Robert made his way down the line, looking at all her siblings before finally coming to her. His whole body seemed to stiffen as his gaze fell on her, and she could see recognition reflected in his blue eyes. Mostly, she noticed the smell of alcohol on his breath.

"So the rumors are true," he spoke, though it sounded more like a whisper to her. "You look just like her."

It was not hard to guess at who the King referred to.

All her life, all Myra ever heard was how much she looked like her aunt, the great Lyanna Stark, as beautiful as she was feisty. She was not afraid to speak her mind or to use her sword for that matter. Her death was a great tragedy, and for her life, a rebellion had started, a great war that toppled a dynasty and left thousands dead across the fields of Westeros.

Myra hated her.

She was haunted by the ghost of a woman she had never met, expected to live up to her standards, standards that frankly Myra did not agree with. She could not go anywhere without a comparison, without being told how much she looked like a dead woman. It was like the gods had cursed her to live with an identity that was not her own. Perhaps that was why she was so different from her aunt, as if it was only to be as far away from her as possible, to be as different as possible so that maybe, one day, someone might recognize her for her rather than her aunt.

Of course, she should not have expected this from the King. After all, Lyanna was to have been his wife.

"So I have been told, Your Grace," Myra replied, dipping her head. She waited a moment before looking back up at the King. He still watched her, unmoving, recognition turned to disbelief in his eyes. The length of his gaze was starting to make her uncomfortable, and she wanted nothing more than to look at her father, silently urging him to help, but she did not dare look away from the King lest he take it as an insult.

"The gods truly do hate me," he whispered.

"Your Grace?"

Her words seemed to snap the King from his reverie. He stepped back, clearing his throat and looking to her father. "Ned, take me to your crypts."

And then he was gone.

Myra released a breath she had not realized she was holding, shoulders sagging in relief. Her father walked by, quickly patting her shoulder before following the King. It did more for her nerves than she thought it would.

Only then did she feel the gazes of the others.

The whole courtyard seemed to be staring at her, eyes filled with emotions she could not quite place, but she certainly did not like. Her whole family was looking at her, save for Robb, who was glaring at the spot the King had vacated. Prince Joffery was looking strangely pleased while to his right she could see the most famous, or perhaps infamous, of the Kingsguard, his uncle, Jaime Lannister, giving her a rather curious stare, like he had just found something he could not quite make sense of. The rest of Robert's court watched her as well, though they quickly went back to their own business, as though nothing unusual had actually happened.

But above it all, Myra felt her gaze.

The eyes of the Queen were hard to avoid. Cersei Lannister, for all the beauty she possessed, could be terrifying if she wished to be, and Myra felt the brunt of it at that very moment.

Oh, how she wished the walls of the courtyard were closer, if only so she could melt into them and disappear.

* * *

**Jaime**

"See something you like?"

Myra Stark had not spoken a word since she joined the company outside the Great Hall – frankly he was surprised the girl had turned up at all – but he had noticed her gaze on him several times, studious, curious. It was hard to miss, they were standing next to each other after all, he her escort to the feast, but he got the feeling she was oblivious to that. The utter look of surprise spread across her face confirmed his belief. She turned away abruptly, but Jaime did not need to see her face to know it was turning a deep shade of red. That was how they all reacted, all the ladies in all the courts so set in their ways. Their inability to think outside of propriety bored him.

He still was not quite sure what to make of her. What gossip he had heard, which was little to say the least, painted a picture of Lyanna Stark reborn. Physically, their words had been true. If her aunt had been standing in that very room with them, Jaime may not have been able to tell them apart. However, she lacked the fire that Lyanna possessed. In fact, she was very much like her father: calm, cool, and utterly uninteresting. It was a shame really.

"I was just…thinking of something, Ser Jaime."

"It must involve a good deal of me."

He watched her sigh, an inner struggle between her propriety and agitation no doubt. Cersei often had the same look.

"You are handsome, Ser Jaime, I admit, but that has nothing to do with my thoughts."

Jaime had to give it to the Northerners: he enjoyed their straightforwardness. No lies or dancing about the subjects with intricate words and compliments laced with poison, just pure, honest truth.

None of them would last a day in King's Landing.

"Certainly it has to have something to do with it. Why stare at me if it doesn't inspire anything?"

Her jaw muscle twitched. It made him smirk. Cersei often said he enjoyed goading people on far too much for his own good.

"Perhaps you inspire disgust, Jaime, like some sideshow attraction that pains people to look at, but they find they can't turn away from."

Tyrion approached them, a little too much spring in his step, as he finished off a goblet of wine. Jaime often found himself wondering who would win in a contest, his little brother or the King. His money was always on Tyrion and he had the feeling it would be a well-placed bet.

"Ah, is that why no one can stop staring at me? I always wondered."

"We ought to start charging people," Tyrion replied, turning to face his companion. "Lady Myra. I apologize for not meeting you properly earlier. I had some rather important business to attend to."

"It is quite alright, Lord Tyrion," Myra replied with a bow of her head, all smiles and courtesy. She even sounded like she meant it. "I'm certain we are all tired of introductions."

"Especially you, I should expect."

Jaime did not miss the brief glance Myra shot toward the doors of the Great Hall, where her mother stood with Robert. The King was already starting to sway from too much wine. He hoped Catelyn had a strong arm or the feast would be well over before it started. Not that Jaime would have minded. He was tired of ceremonies. It seemed that Robert could not wipe his ass without holding one, each more extravagant than the last.

Myra nodded once. "I do my part until I am bid to do no more."

Tyrion almost looked impressed. "Well spoken. Your septa must be proud."

Not long after, the company shuffled in line, preparing to march into the feast like some sort of spectacle on parade. He thought the years of countless banquets would have waned his annoyance, but instead he found it growing. Peace never had been very kind to him. It only made the longing grow.

"Is there something wrong, Ser Jaime?"

He found her gray eyes watching him and could have sworn they looked concerned. What in the Seven Hells had earned him that?

Before he had the chance to answer, Tyrion did him the honors from just behind them. "It's nothing he isn't used to. My brother is always bored. I would be too if my job consisted of standing and looking pretty all day."

Jaime looked over his shoulder. "I thought you said I was the ugly one."

Tyrion shrugged. "It's all a matter of perspective."

He did not miss the smirk on Myra's face as they entered the fray arm in arm.

The Great Hall was filled with boisterous laughter and the heinous conversations of those who already had too much to drink. It died down as Robert entered, chairs scraping across the stone floor as the people moved to stand for their King, but there was still a buzz of murmuring to be heard, none of it subtle in the least. Jaime could practically picture the frown on Cersei's face. He did not like it.

"Seems the party started early."

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Myra look at him. "It's quite normal, I assure you. People might think differently of the North if they knew how we feast."

"You might be better off."

They took a few more steps into the hall, their pace remarkably snail like and tiresome for his long legs. Jaime bet Tyrion was enjoying it all immensely. To his left and right, dogs could be seen chewing on bones, men of the guard were dining with common folk, and several couples were already in the process of being nearly vulgar. Better off indeed.

"Tell me something, why is it you and I are in the back? Last I checked, you certainly weren't the youngest." Jaime leaned in close, whispering in her ear. "Is it that you wish to avoid a certain king?"

She immediately stiffened and her grip on his arm tightened. He'd struck a nerve. Jaime hadn't missed the interaction between her and Robert. If he was one to dole out pity, she would have it. He knew Robert well, and knew men just like Robert equally so. They weren't ones to let go of things that caught their attention, and the image of Lyanna Stark was bound to captivate him for an eternity.

"I always take the last place," Myra answered quickly, too much so. "I consider it a place of responsibility, to watch out for the youngest of my siblings when my parents cannot. And to show my humility. I may be the eldest, but Winterfell is not mine to hold."

"A good enough excuse, I suppose, though I doubt that explains how you practically ran to the back after Robert arrived."

Myra was silent for a while before quietly saying, "Wouldn't you?"

Jaime frowned, glancing down at his attire, which for once did not consist of his white cloak and embellished armor. "Can't say I've ever had the choice."

She nodded slowly. "I suppose none of us does."

No more words were exchanged between the two of them. Jaime escorted Myra to her seat, pretending to play the gallant knight that all the ladies yearned to see. Whatever had transpired between them no longer mattered to him. He spent the rest of the evening here and there, always a great distance from Cersei, and always longing to close it.


	4. The Fall

**Tyrion**

The quiet of the library was a blessed relief from the chaos of the King's feast. Not that he did not enjoy a good party, but every now and again he liked the company of intelligence and understanding more, and there was none to be found in the Great Hall of Winterfell.

He had not meant to spend much time in the library; he only wished to replace the books the Starks had provided in his room – a kind gesture on their part but woefully misinformed – but now he found himself tucked into a small chair in the corner, a candle on the table to his left and a dusty text on Artos the Implacable on his lap. The wineskin he had brought along had run dry long ago, but even that had not been enough to convince him to retire. Many would find that surprising, save for Jaime. Only his older brother knew how he truly functioned; only his older brother cared to know.

The book had begun to tell him of the Battle of Long Lake when the sound of an opening door caught his attention.

Tyrion glanced up to see a dark figure entering the room, and though the candlelight barely lit their features, he could tell it was a woman, and a rather relieved one at that. She did not seem to notice him. He found it a little odd, but not entirely out of the realm of possibility. After all, people had been ignoring him all his life. What was one more person among the many?

"Some might call it strange, seeking the company of books rather than man, especially for someone such as yourself."

The woman jumped, clutching one hand to her chest. "Lord Tyrion…I didn't realize anyone would be up here, especially at this hour."

Gods knew that of all the possible visitors, Myra Stark was one of the better ones. Of course, anyone Tyrion had deemed a worse than death companion wouldn't think to step near a book, much less the library.

"Tell me, do you Northerners often keep a fire burning alone in a room full of paper?"

Even in the darkness, he could make out her sheepish features. "Only when Maester Luwin knows I'm coming."

He nodded as she took a seat across from him. "You are a frequenter then?"

"I must have read most of these twice over," she replied with a sigh. Her eyes wandered the shelves adoringly before pausing on him. "The Tales of Artos Stark, as written by his ailing Maester. I find the embellishment a little much, but once you break past the overused vocabulary, it's quite insightful."

Tyrion smiled. Oh yes, he and this Stark were going to get on just fine.

Myra was a pretty girl, perhaps not the most beautiful, but any lord with half a brain would count his blessings to have her on his arm. Her gray eyes were wide and curious, her face heart-shaped and friendly, and she had all the curves a woman could ask for, plus a little more for the sake of men. It was a wonder she had not been married off already, but Tyrion supposed Eddard had a reason for wanting his family close to him for longer than needed.

"As for the company," she continued, unaware of his scrutiny, "sometimes I enjoy being surrounded by things that cannot talk back."

He knew that feeling all too well.

"And when the books start to talk back?" he asked, shutting his own.

The girl chuckled. "Then I've had too much to drink."

_Clearly I've not had enough_.

It did feel unusual, still being at least partially sober, especially given the circumstances. Then again, the night was still young and there was plenty of wine to be found, no doubt because they had heard of his reputation to drink the lands dry. Or maybe that was Robert. Between the two of them, every inn within a thousand leagues was only serving water now.

A brief moment of silence passed between them before Myra spoke again, all traces of her previous humor now gone. She looked much more like her father that way, filled with all the grim tidings of the North. "Might I ask you something, Lord Tyrion?"

He sighed. "I suppose if it can't be avoided, but leave the titles out of it. My father is Lord of Casterly Rock. I am only his spawn, or so he is forced to believe."

Tyrion did not miss the strange look on her face, the slight sadness in her eyes at his choice of words.

"I did not mean to remind you of anything…unpleasant."

Well, she would be the first.

"My dear girl, I am reminded of it every time I wake in the morning. It takes an awful lot of drink in order to forget what I am, and I am hardly capable of getting that drunk anymore," he paused, eying his empty wineskin, "Now, please, ask what you will."

Still, she was quiet again, taking her time before hesitantly asking, "I was only wondering…the stares and the whispers, how do you ignore them? How do you make them disappear?"

Tyrion looked back to her, suddenly realizing what it was all about, why she sought sanctuary here in the library. Robert wasn't like to venture anywhere near intelligent things, nor any of his entourage, any of those who would whisper of who she resembled. He had never met Lyanna, but he knew of her. Not a soul alive in Westeros was unaware of the sad tale that brought the land to war. Myra must have seemed like some strange omen.

"I don't," he replied flatly. No need for lies here. For once, the truth was best. "Convince yourself that they do not exist and you will only wind up hurt. Believe me, I tried once."

He watched her nod, clearly defeated by his answer.

He sighed again. "Look, you are a pretty girl, and one day you'll have a lord husband who will relish it. Count your blessings that you have been given the face of another rather than…"

Tyrion gestured to himself as he slid down from his chair.

Her frown deepened. "I am sorry, Tyrion, I don't wish to compare my case to yours. I simply…"

She trailed off, biting her lip.

"I know, I know. Stop apologizing, you've done nothing wrong," he waved his hand in her direction, walking slowly to the door, book in hand. "Now, as much as I have enjoyed our conversation, I think a little fresh air may do me some good."

_As well as some more wine, if our dear King hasn't drank it all yet._

"Good night, Tyrion."

"Good night to you as well, Lady Myra," he replied with a sweeping bow, a courtesy he hardly thought he knew anymore.

Myra smiled at him before he left through the threshold.

"My mother is lady of this castle. I am only her spawn," he heard her call out.

Tyrion, despite himself, chuckled. "And I will do well to remember that!"

It was a long journey to the bottom of the stairwell, though not quite as tiresome as the climb had been. Still, Tyrion found himself scarcely able to breathe when he at last reach the bottom. More than once he glanced at the wineskin, cursing himself for having consumed it all too quickly. He had half a mind to retire to bed and be done with it, but still his tired body continued to waddle toward the Great Hall and the commotion coursing from it.

He turned a corner quickly, nearly running into an out held wineskin and the looming figure it belonged to.

"I told you not to leave me alone with these people."

"And I told you where you could find me," Tyrion replied as he grabbed the skin and took a swig. It was bitter stuff but satisfying nonetheless.

Jaime chuckled. "Ah, yes, the library. I think I preferred it when you were in the company of whores."

"Gods know why. You look at books the same way you do women: with complete and utter disinterest."

"At least the whores have a sense of humor."

"So do the books, if you'd read them once in a while."

Tyrion took another swig, heading back toward his room. Jaime walked beside him, at a pace that would most likely be uncomfortable for someone of his height had he not grown used to it over the years. For all the trouble Tyrion gave him, he was grateful for his brother. The gods, it seemed, had cursed him in every way they thought possible, but at least they had spared him one family member who cared.

Jaime gave him a look. "They're all the same. War turned into poetry and old men yearning for youth again. Tales of glory and honor. No one talks about how fast blood can drain from a man hit in the proper spot or the sound of metal making contact with the meat of your enemy. Not every book is about dragons or grumpkins but they're all fancy as far as I'm concerned."

There was a moment of silence.

"That was oddly serious of you. I should leave you alone more often."

"I'd rather you didn't. These Starks and their brooding are bound to drive me insane," Jaime said as they entered another stairwell. Tyrion did not bother hiding his disappointment upon seeing more steps. "There's a reason no one travels north."

"Maybe there's a reason they don't travel south," Tyrion added as they approached his room. "Come, Jaime, I plan on being properly inebriated before the night is through."

Jaime sighed. "Ah, from one drunk to another, my duty never ends."

* * *

**Myra**

She never used to dream. Nights often went uninterrupted until the first rays of sun broke over the horizon, but that morning she woke with a cold feeling grasping her body and the memory of a raven's wings. She could not recall any images, but whatever transpired in the dead of night left her with an empty feeling; she did not like it.

It was only when Myra finally forced her eyes open that she remembered she was still in the library, curled into one of the chairs. The position was not particularly comfortable, but she had fallen asleep there so many times that her body had grown quite used to the feeling. Maester Luwin used to keep extra blankets especially for her on one of the shelves.

Part of her longed to drift back to sleep, ignoring the party downstairs until they departed. It seemed a fairly pointless effort, however, considering she was to travel south with them when they returned to King's Landing.

Her father was now Hand of the King – something she still could not quite grasp the reality of – and she, Sansa, Arya, and Bran were to accompany him to his new position in the Red Keep. That left their poor mother with only Robb and Rickon. She could not imagine how lonely it would be, to go from six children to only two, and to go without sharing the bed with her husband. It was a wonder her mother still functioned, but she was the strongest person Myra knew.

Myra wondered how she would deal with the distance. It was Robb she worried for the most. And Jon. None of them had ever been far from the others. She knew Jon would not remain in Winterfell, especially if her mother had her way. To an extent, she could understand her mother's harshness toward their bastard brother, but at the end of the day, Jon had never done anything to her, and frankly had treated her with far more respect than what was called for. But she supposed her mother's opinion did not matter at this point. Jon had his eyes fixed upon the Wall and the dark duty their uncle had taken up all those years ago.

And now Robb would be acting Lord of Winterfell. At any other time, the thought of her twin, only seven and ten, commanding anything would have her bursting at the seams from laughter. Now it only reminded her what little time they had left in their childhood.

_Our whole family is being torn apart, and all for the want of one man._

A pounding at the door drew Myra's attention away from her thoughts. Sansa suddenly burst through the threshold, out of breath and clearly in a rush. A small part of Myra jumped in concern, but she had learned long ago that her younger sister often drew problems well out of proportion.

"Myra, where were you?!"

She blinked, glancing at her surroundings and gesturing to them. "Right here."

Sansa stamped her foot. "You were supposed to help me fix my hair this morning!"

"Oh…"

Recalling their conversation the previous night about attempting to plait her hair the way all the Southern girls did, Myra began to feel a little guilty. Sansa had been so excited. She wanted to look perfect for Joffrey, a thought that still caused a bit of bile to rise in her throat. Myra had to wonder what Sansa would think of the boy had he not been crown prince.

"I wanted Joffrey to see me before he went on the hunt," Sansa sighed, looking utterly deflated all of a sudden.

Myra just barely resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Gods, youth was annoying.

"Sansa, the two of you are betrothed. You've plenty of time to show him whatever hairstyle that pleases you."

"You don't understand!"

She sighed. "No, I suppose I don't. Look, why don't we work on it now, that way when he returns, he can see how much more beautiful you've become in his absence."

That seemed to cheer Sansa up. She smiled timidly, though it quickly disappeared. "We aren't going to do it here, are we?"

Myra raised an eyebrow. "I hadn't thought to, but what is wrong with the library?"

"It smells like dust and dead things."

Well, she supposed her sister wasn't wrong, though she wasn't exactly right either.

Not an hour later, Myra found herself in Sansa's room with clumps of hair in each hand and a slew of curse words caught in her throat. She had always thought herself quite gifted in the realm of style – even if she often did not use it. Then again the North had never really required much out of her. Everything from the South was so finely intricate. Most of the detail was likely lost on others, but it was still demanded, something that would no doubt drive her insane at some point or another.

Brenna and Lady were on the ground before them, both watching with heads curiously tilted. Out of all the direwolves, theirs were the best behaved. Myra's was by far the largest, at least at this point, and often took command of the others. It was entertaining if not slightly unnerving at the same time. They were so like each other, all the Starks and their pets.

"Are you finished?"

"What do you think, Sansa?"

She huffed. "Well, are you close?"

"The instant I am anywhere near being done with this monstrosity of a hair style, I will tell you."

Sansa fell still again, though Myra knew it would not be for long. She gave her younger sister credit, she did far better at staying in one place than Arya ever would, but she knew the girl had limits and they were very close to breaking them.

"Do you think he'll love me?"

Myra had not expected such a question from her sister, so sudden and serious. She paused a moment, before continuing to plait her hair.

"I think he would be a fool not to. You're beautiful and kind – when you choose to be – and far better than any of those Southern girls they brought with them."

"But what if it's not enough? What if he hates me? I don't want to live with a husband who hates me."

"He won't hate you, Sansa."

"How do you know?" Sansa turned to her, slow enough to allow Myra to let her hair go. Her poor sister looked on the verge of tears. What had brought it all on? "It was different with you and Domeric. He wasn't pretty and he wasn't a prince, but I could tell that he loved you."

Ignoring the jab at Domeric, she smiled. "We'd known each other for a long time. You have been with Prince Joffrey for hardly a day. Give it time and you'll be alright."

Sansa sat back again, though not entirely relaxed. Myra could spot the tenseness in her shoulders. "I hope so. I'd hate to end up like the Queen."

Her smile disappeared. Yes, the Queen. What a life she must have led. A replacement wife for a dead one, left to watch as her husband makes a mockery of their marriage and their rule, constantly under the scrutiny of others all the while. Myra knew a good mask when she saw one, and the Queen's was an exquisite piece, but the cracks were there, and time was making them more obvious.

Despite first impressions, she pitied the woman. And she pitied the King for being blind to it all.

Myra had just returned to her struggles with Sansa's locks when Lady and Brenna began to howl. Had they been any of the other pups, she might not have minded, or rather she would have expected it. A quick harsh tone would be all they needed to quiet up. But when it came to her pup and Sansa's, the two had hardly uttered a yip, much less a howl. They sounded in pain and immediately ran for the door, clawing at it.

"Lady, what is wrong with you?" Sansa asked, turning to the door. "Lady come here!"

The pup did no such thing. She only howled louder.

Myra watched them, her stomach sinking all the while. She remembered her dream and the cold feeling.

_Dark wings, dark words._

Something was wrong.

"Sansa, take hold of Lady. I want you to stay here, alright?"

She did not like the frightened look her sister gave her. "Myra, what is happening?"

"I don't know. It's likely nothing."

"You wouldn't tell me to stay here if it was nothing."

Myra sighed. "Please, Sansa, do it for me."

Her sister nodded, grabbing Lady away from the door. Myra opened it and followed as Brenna rushed into the corridor and down the stairs, as fast as her little legs could carry her, which as it turned out was nearly enough to outrun Myra. She hitched up her skirts as high as she dared, trailing after the little pup at a reckless speed. Left and right, servants paused to look at her, but if they knew her well enough, which most did, they would be used to it. All her life she had run up and down the halls of Winterfell, chasing after siblings and getting aid when one of them hurt themselves again. Usually for Robb. He always was the clumsy one.

Gods, what if it was the hunting party?

She pushed back the dark thoughts as far as she dared, picking up her pace as Brenna led her outside, to a well secluded and less looked after part of the castle. From time to time, Myra would visit the area, often conjuring up ideas of how to improve it. Calling it the Broken Tower and leaving it be, burned and rotting, did not seem to do Winterfell or her family much justice. If anything, it made them look like a lazy lot, which they were quite the opposite of.

A small crowd had gathered at the base of the tower. There were wails and whispers and an overall commotion that did not bode well. Brenna stopped just short of them, making her way to another direwolf pup and howling beside it.

The pup belonged to Bran.

And in the center of the crowd, pale and motionless, was the small form of her little brother, looking more dead than alive.

It was all she remembered before the ground gave out beneath her feet.

* * *

**Jon**

Something was hurting, a steady, stabbing motion deep within his chest. The more he thought about it, the more it hurt, but there was nothing in all of Westeros that could take his attention away, save for Bran's voice asking another one of his silly questions or trying out a new name on his direwolf.

But Bran would not be speaking for a long time now.

Perhaps never.

He'd rather think of the pain than that.

He'd rather think of it over the fact that all his family was gathered around Bran now, comforting one another while he was in the godswood, praying to gods who never spoke, grieving alone because even now Lady Stark could not bear the sight of him. Even now, while his brother was lying there helpless, possibly dying, she would send him away, not let him look at his sweet face one last time before fate took him away. It was a cruelty far worse than anything she had given him, and still his father would have him obey.

And he would, because he was a hopeless bastard who knew more of obedience than love.

He wanted to punch the ground then, and so he did. Again and again his fist made contact with the dirt. More pain shot up his arm, but it was nothing next to the pain in his chest. His skin was breaking. He didn't care. His fist left trails of blood in the dirt. He still did not care. It felt good to vent his frustrations, at Catelyn, at the King, at everyone who had ever made him feel small only for breathing.

Even when he thought something cracked, he kept going. Bran was dying. He could take the pain.

"Jon, stop!"

His fist froze midair.

Jon turned in the direction of the voice. There Myra stood, not three feet away, her eyes watching him with a wild, desperate look and her lips trembling. She looked on the verge of tears. Her hair was a tangled mess and her dress, the very one she had worn for the feast, was covered in mud. He had heard she fainted at the sight of Bran and that one of the guards had to carry her back inside.

He stood slowly, hair just touching the low lying leaves of the weirwood. The fingers on his right hand flexed slowly, but the pain was gone, the skin numb.

"Suppose you'll want to look at this," he mumbled, daring to meet her eyes again.

"I might," she whispered.

They stood silent for a while, neither daring to speak or move, yet so much passed between them. Jon suddenly understood it, the silent talks that she and Robb always had, knowing what the other wanted and needed without saying a word. He knew then what Myra needed.

The instant he strode forward and wrapped his arms around her, Myra collapsed, her silence broken down into sobs. She buried her face into his shoulder and dug her fingers deep into his clothes.

"I couldn't bear it, Jon," she managed between shaky breaths. "Mother was wailing…so was Rickon. Sansa and Arya and Robb. Even father. Oh Jon, I couldn't look at him. He wasn't the same. I told myself I had to be strong. I had to be strong for them, but I couldn't. The screams and the whispers and the words like death. I can't be strong, Jon, not anymore."

"You know you never have to be around me." He tightened his grip, taking care to keep the blood off her clothes. "I'll be strong for the both of us."

"That isn't fair to you."

He paused. "Nothing ever is."

Myra's shaking stopped suddenly. She looked up at him, gray eyes so like his own, though reddened from her tears. He could see the concern welling in them, the urge to care calling her back from despair. Slowly, she released herself from his grip and grabbed his hand, gently turning and touching it. She was a good healer, even Maester Luwin had said so. Anything that involved her hands, she could master, though she never said anything of it. That was Myra Stark, strong and quiet, humble and kind.

"Do you remember that Septon from the Riverlands? The fat man with an even fatter ego?"

Jon nodded, smiling softly. "How could I forget? You had him convinced that I was your twin and so for one whole day, I was Robb Stark, heir to Winterfell. You even had our brother prepare my horse like some sort of servant."

"I told Robb if he didn't play along, mother would find out about his expedition to the brothel." Myra let his hand go, leaving her fingers red and sticky. She stared at them for a long time before meeting his gaze again. "Don't go to the Wall, Jon. Not now…not with everything like this."

He should have known the conversation would take this turn. It had been a fact looming in the air for the past few weeks, but Myra had never mentioned it, likely out of respect. Perhaps now she thought she could change his mind. Or she was desperate enough to ask him to do something he did not want. That wasn't like her. Myra would drag herself through all seven hells and back again to keep others from having to do something for her that caused them issue.

"And what would you have me do? She won't even let me see him, Myra, my own brother."

She shrugged. "I could speak with her, Jon."

"You've spoken with her a thousand times before, so has father. It never changes anything," he paused. "If I don't go to the Wall now, I never will."

"Then never go."

His sister made it sound so easy. How he wished it was.

"It's a bit selfish, don't you think, asking me to stay while you're set to leave for King's Landing?"

Myra bit her lip, a telltale sign that the foundation of her argument was crumbling. "You could come with us."

"You and I both know bastards don't fare well at court."

She stood a little straighter. "Then I'll stay. I won't have you leave, Jon. Our family is falling apart, and if you go…I fear I'll never see you again."

He sighed. "And what am I to do when you're married? When Robb is? Am I to trail my siblings around for the rest of my life, the unwanted bastard of Winterfell with nothing better to do?"

Myra shook her head. "Why must you always be so cruel to yourself, Jon?"

"Because life is not kind."

A brief moment of silence passed between them. Jon knew the discussion was at an end. Myra was not one to push something, even for things as important as this. She did not like to argue, and she did not like to leave things on a sour note.

"You should return," he said eventually. "Father'll be looking for you."

"Not until you've had your hand taken care of."

Jon looked at it again. Flexing the fingers was harder now, though no more painful. "It's fine. A little rest is all it needs."

"You're a dreadful liar, Jon."

He had to smile at that. She always knew.

They walked through the godswood toward the entrance, each step slower than the last. He did not wish to leave the relative peace of the area and got the feeling his sister felt the same. Part of him wished to suggest they stay, spend a few more hours, let the world outside pass them by. Nothing could harm them here. But he knew better than that. Eventually they all had to face the world.

And so they stepped back into Winterfell, his heart no lighter than before, not ready but at least willing to do what needed to be done.

It was the last time he and Myra were alone together before Winter engulfed the countryside.


	5. The Leave Taking

**Myra**

The family crypt was not a place she visited often. She had first entered its dank halls when she was ten and two, and had been surprised by how warm it was. Robb and Jon had mulled over the idea of moving underground when the next winter came, excitedly claiming statues to sleep by, but their father silenced the planning with a dark look. The crypt was no place for silly words, only those carefully considered, as solemn and binding as an oath. Myra made sure to never speak whenever she returned.

She could not be certain what brought her back now. Surely it had to be some form of bad luck to wander the place while her little brother still barely clung to life, but her feet kept their pace and had no intention of turning back. Perhaps she only wanted to see everything once more before journeying south, even the dead.

There was something oddly final about it all.

Myra approached the last of the tombs. Built nearly eighteen years before, it housed her aunt, Lyanna Stark, but all that she could see gazing upon the statue was her own face. It sent a small chill up her spine, as though Myra were looking at her own final resting place, though she supposed that was not to be true. She would be entombed with her lord husband's family, whomever that may be.

Lyanna's outstretched hand held a small feather, or rather its remains. The notoriously damp crypts destroyed most things not made of stone within weeks, if not less, and even some of the older statues had to be replaced, though a few were left to settle. Their faces had been forgotten and no one knew what to do with them.

Her hand gently reached for the plume, touching only the slightest edge lest the rest fall apart before her eyes. She wondered what sort of significance it held, and if the hand that bore it knew it was there.

"She may not have known it, but I loved her with all my heart."

Eyes wide, Myra turned to the unmistakable source of the voice: Robert Baratheon. How he had managed to catch her off guard, she could not be sure. She had thought the man was incapable of going anywhere without catching the attention of everyone in the vicinity.

"Your Grace!" She fell to her knees with a  _smack_ , her skirts soaking in what water had gathered on the stone floor while her eyes took in the image of the King's mud-caked boots as she willed away the heat gathering in her cheeks. How foolish she must have looked to the man, so lost in her own daydreams that she could not be bothered to greet him properly. As she thought over all the ways to apologize, his gloved hand reached out for her.

"Don't go ruining your dress on my account."

Myra took the King's hand, surprised by how quickly and easily he lifted her. Despite his girth, King Robert had maintained his strength and his dominating presence, if his towering height over her said anything. There, in the darkness of the crypts, it was suddenly no longer difficult to picture the man he once was, with his helm of antlers and a war hammer that could crush a man into nothing.

"You Northerners and your propriety," the King continued, oblivious to her scrutiny. His breath, as usual, stunk of drink. "Do you plan on taking a knee every time we cross paths?"

Her mouth opened and closed, unsure of what to say. The man's boisterous nature made it difficult to tell if he was angry or not. In that manner, she found him very similar to her father's bannermen, the Umbers. Make an odd comment to the Greatjon and you stood half a chance of getting an axe in the face. The other half was reserved for an hour's worth of boisterous laughter. With that thought, she also had to wonder why the South believed them to be proper people.

"Only if you ask me to, Your Grace."

"Ask you to," Robert echoed with a snort. "And if I asked you to jump from The Wall stark naked, would you?"

"No, Your Grace," she replied slowly, gauging his reaction, but the shadows that flickered across his face made it difficult. "I'd much rather die with my clothes on."

Myra was not sure why she had replied in that manner, completely out of line with that propriety he claimed she had. She supposed the conversation reminded her of ones she had shared with Theon. In that case, it was best to fight fire with fire.

The King was silent just long enough for regret to begin seeping into her veins, then he broke out in laughter so raucous, she thought the very ceiling might collapse around them. Myra felt her cheeks growing warm again. Now she was glad the place was so dark.

"You really are Ned's," he said, clasping a hand on her shoulder. Myra could not help but notice how large it was. She felt like a small child in his grasp. "All Winter is Comings and Your Graces, and a sense of humor buried underneath it all. I could stand to be surrounded by more like you."

He moved on from her, hand leaving her skin cold in its wake, and turned his attention to the statue of her aunt. She had to wonder if his words had only meant Lyanna, or if the Southerners were really as miserable as he was making them out to be.

She watched Robert remove a feather from the pocket of his cloak, and at that moment felt ashamed. This was not something she should bear witness to. Only the souls of the dead and whatever gods he may have believed in should know what was about to transpire. Yet as she tried to leave him to his privacy, the King spoke.

"It comes from the southernmost lands of the Seven Kingdoms."

Myra turned, finding the King still facing the statue.

"Your Grace?"

"The feather. From some damned bird I can't pronounce the name of. I used to bring her all sorts of these trinkets. I wanted to show her the world, and prove I'd cross the breadth of it for her."

He turned to her then and, even in the dark, she could see all the emotion in his eyes, the anger and the pain and all the love he still bore for a dead woman.

"But it was never enough."

The words should have been for Lyanna, yet Myra got the distinct impression that they were meant for her. In that moment, as she locked eyes with the King, she knew that something had transpired between them, and in the pit of her stomach, it all felt so very wrong.

* * *

"You've been in the crypts."

Myra smiled softly at her mother, who was just noticing her presence despite having sat across from her for the better part of an hour, not that she could blame her. Ever since Bran fell, Catelyn Stark had hardly slept, if at all, and her mind would often be elsewhere, preserving what energy it could. Either that or she was lost in dreams of a small boy, climbing to his heart's content with legs that still worked.

She looked down at her dress and sighed at the state it was in, though it was not so different from any other day come to think of it. Her hair would have given it away more, soaked through and nearly frozen at the ends from the sudden cold of the morning. "I suppose there is no way to hide that."

"What were you doing down there?"

"I was just…taking it all in one last time."

Myra turned to the bed that separated them and the boy who occupied it. She had hoped he would have awoken before the King and his party took their leave, so she could remember him as someone other than the frail creature lying asleep before her. Try as she might, Myra could not recall him looking like anything else, not even when they had spoken over his direwolf pup. The only image her mind conjured was a pale child with sunken eyes and a broken body. He had been a boy so full of life and had lost nearly every bit of it.

Bran was not the only one, however. Their mother was not the same either. She had aged at least ten years since he fell, and was all but broken herself. Her hands were shaking as she worked on some wooden ornament for Bran and her eyes were swollen from the ceaseless crying. It had been four days of this.

"You should get some rest, Mother," Myra urged softly.

Catelyn shook her head. "I can't leave him. Even if I wanted to, the thought that he might pass alone…"

"He won't be alone. I'll be here."

"The caravan leaves today…" Her mother trailed off, eyes widening as if she only just realized. If possible, she seemed to grow much frailer.

Myra dropped the subject a moment, letting her hand run through her brother's hair. How he would have hated her doing that. He was not some pet, he would say. No, but he was a pup, a wolf pup, and that was close enough.

What was her mother to do without her husband and daughters now? Robb was terrible at dealing with emotion and Rickon was nothing but it. Neither could help their mother; they were still so terribly dependent on her.

"I don't have to go," Myra offered, looking up. "Sansa is engaged to the prince and Arya has her desire for adventure, but there is no need for me in the South."

Her mother looked surprised. "Myra, I cannot ask that of you."

"You're not asking, I'm offering. Winterfell is my home and I would rather not leave it like this, not with Bran…" she paused, unwilling to speak the words like they were some ill will. "Besides, Robb will need all the help he can get. My poor twin will be in over his head. And someone will have to tend to Rickon. Old Nan scares him more often than not. And there's the matter of the upcoming harvest…"

Catelyn held her hand up, ending Myra's rambling. Her mother appeared stronger now as she gazed at her with such pride in her eyes.

"I remember when you were just a babe, clear as day. You were so quiet and good-natured, I must have checked on you twice as much as your brother, afraid you might have died. But you were always fine, content with your surroundings and never prone to complaint. Even when Robb got upset, you never made a sound. You would only try to go to him, no matter what separated you, and give him comfort. My little girl, born without an inkling of selfishness."

Her mother stood then, perhaps for the first time in a long while for her feet were a little unsteady, but the Lady of Winterfell regained her bearing as she crossed the room. Myra rose with her, watching.

"You tell yourself you will not regret staying, but Myra I can assure you, if you do not leave with the caravan, you will spend the rest of your days wondering what might have happened." Catelyn cupped her face in her hands, thumbs wiping tears Myra had been unaware of. "The North will always be here, as will Winterfell, and both will welcome you with open arms when you choose to return."

Myra looked to her mother's Tully blue eyes, knowing that whatever she said would be of no use. And she could not deny the part of her that was more than a little curious at what was so special about the lands south of her home, so she conceded with a nod. Her mother kissed her forehead gently.

"I'll miss you, Mother."

"And I you, my sweet girl."

* * *

Three weeks. That was the longest Myra had ever been separated from her twin. It had been her first official outing from the castle, when she and her father had gone to the Dreadfort to visit Lord Bolton, and introduce her to his son, Domeric. It was meant to be no more than a week's journey, but upon their arrival, Myra had grown deathly ill and was confined to a bed for days. Robb had told her it was clearly a sign that they should not be parted from one another, a joke she so easily saw through because the fear and relief in his eyes had been unmistakable.

Three weeks.

And in that amount of time, the caravan may not have even reached King's Landing yet.

Gods help her.

Robb stood near the portcullis, saying farewell to Jon. As much as she wanted to join them, become the trio of silly children they used to be just one final time, Myra forced herself to remain still. This was their moment, and she would not ruin it for them. If she knew the boys half as well as she thought she did, whatever emotion they were revealing now would turn inward on itself if she did show up, leaving them the tough, Northern boys they pegged themselves to be.

At her feet, Brenna began to paw at her boots. She had changed into riding breeches, longing to see the last of her home from horseback rather than the confines of a carriage. Like herself, Myra's direwolf was growing restless. The pup had an uncanny ability to reflect whatever emotion she was feeling.

"Me too," Myra breathed, locking eyes with her twin from across the courtyard. In that moment, she felt a swell of emotion she could not place and thought she might keel over on the spot. Somehow, she remained standing as Robb crossed over to her.

"I'm already tired of goodbyes. What about you, Myra?"

"I could probably use one more."

They embraced then, holding the other more fiercely than they ever had. Emotions may not have been her brother's strong suit, but she knew he was fighting back the tears as much as she was.

"Don't go doing anything rash now," Robb spoke as he released her. "You won't have your brothers to look out for you in King's Landing."

Myra could not help but laugh, even if it felt hollow. "Oh,  _you've_  been watching over  _me_  all this time?"

"Of course I have," he countered, his smile equally unhappy. "And now I won't be there when all the Southern Lords come calling on my sister."

"They can call all they please, but any man who fancies himself up more than I has no place trying."

"Well, if the King's party is anything to go by, you may die an unwed woman."

She smacked her brother on the shoulder. It was no harder than a tap, but he rubbed the offended limb anyway. "And if your studies are anything to go by, you may need me to."

Their father rode by then, a picture of Northern apathy, but when his eyes locked on them, she knew it was all a ruse, the only one he ever performed. The caravan would be leaving shortly.

Robb helped Myra onto her mount, a palfrey named Tempest, more so for her speed rather than temperament. Her brothers had lost a fair amount of bragging rights to her small chestnut. Below, Brenna positioned herself between the mare's hooves, brimming with excitement that her owner could not yet show.

"When you leave the gateway, don't look back," Robb said as he handed over Tempest's reins. "And neither will I. If we do, one of us is bound to go after the other."

"It would probably be you."

"Probably," he agreed with a faint smile that quickly vanished. "Goodbye, Myra."

"Goodbye, Robb."

With a quick nudge of the foot, Tempest broke away from her brother and the rest of the castellan. Myra would do as she was asked; she would not look back, even as the portcullis passed overhead and the great expanse of the North opened up to her, even as her mind suddenly forgot what all of Winterfell looked like and desperately wanted one last reminder. She had been wrong when talking to Robb. It was not he who would go after her, but rather the opposite, so she fixed her eyes on a point upon the horizon, and waited for the caravan to close in on it.

It had not been long, and yet an eternity, since they had left when a dark rider pulled up beside her.

"He asked you not to turn around, didn't he?" Jon asked, he himself not turning his head in the slightest.

"I might go back otherwise." Myra paused, glancing at her half-brother. "I will if you come with me."

She might have imagined it, but Jon appeared to consider her proposal before shaking his head. "You know I can't do that."

Yes, she knew, and deep down she wanted Jon to follow what he believed in, but she had buried it below fact and concern. She was no fool. The Night's Watch may have sounded honorable, and perhaps at times it was, but she knew the sorts of men who went there: the kind Uncle Benjen dragged from the dungeons every so often and little lords who could not be bothered to follow anyone's laws, their own fathers' included. Jon must have known this, but perhaps he had convinced himself otherwise, if only to make it easier.

Then she thought of her mother, who, even while stricken with unimaginable grief, kept Jon from seeing his brother for so long. He had been nothing but kind to Bran, and she could be nothing but cruel to him.

"No," she admitted finally, picking at Tempest's mane. "I guess you can't."

They walked their mounts side by side in silence for some time, listening to the wind howl across the open countryside, and Arya as she already managed to drive Sansa to her breaking point.

"I can't say goodbye to you, Jon," Myra blurted suddenly, turning to the bastard brother who looked so much like her. "I know I'll see the others again, but you…I don't want those to be my last words."

Jon did not hesitate. "We'll meet each other again."

"I'm afraid you're overestimating my love of the cold, Jon."

"Nonetheless Myra, we will. I promise."

How she wished she could have his confidence, or whatever skill he possessed to make him seem that way.

* * *

Arya rode up to her after a time, when Jon was long gone and their home was safely hidden behind the horizon. She looked sad, but Myra knew that was only for her benefit. The young girl was practically shaking with excitement, and she could not blame her. When she was much younger, the emotion came to her easily. Age seemed to dull many things.

"Do you think I'll have my own room in King's Landing? Or will I have to share? Can I share with you?"

"So you don't have to share with Sansa, I presume?" Myra replied, giving her little sister a sidelong glance. She could not help but smirk at Arya, as she looked at anything but her.

"Maybe."

Her smile grew. Truth be told, she rather liked the distraction. Talking with Arya and her constant bickering state with her older sister made things start to feel normal again. "I shouldn't think you would have to share. The Red Keep is a large place. I hear people have disappeared in there."

"But it's not as big as Casterly Rock or Harrenhal."

Myra snorted. Those strongholds were so large, no one knew what to do with them. She could not imagine being in charge of a keep so big; she might not be able to explore it all before her death.

"It's still a great deal bigger than Winterfell, and you have your own room there."

"But we were the only important people in Winterfell, not like in King's Landing."

"Don't let Father hear that, Arya," Myra warned. The Lord of Winterfell was a firm believer that lords were only as good as the people they ruled over, and no better. It was why Winterfell was not the finely decorated keep like many other strongholds. Once, he had heard Robb mutter something quite similar to what her sister had just said, and her twin found himself working in the muck for nearly a fortnight, a lesson in humility. Though she was not sure if he could find such a punishment for Arya out on the Kingsroad, especially with the King as company.

"Our Father," she continued, "is the Hand of the King. He'll help control the books, the tournaments, and the daily affairs of King Robert. It makes him the second most powerful man in all of Westeros. I think he can find it in that vast power of his to give you your own room…so long as you behave."

Arya smiled, the kind that was both a promise and a vow to break said promise. She would be good, for a time, then she would test her limits, and then she would jump over the established line of propriety completely, usually with Sansa as a target or at least collateral. Myra was going to give her two days before she tried something, and that was being generous.

They continued side by side, Arya going on about why she named her direwolf Nymeria and the story about the Rhoynar Princess, when a great warhorse pulled up beside them. Seated on the steed was the King himself, looking red-faced and happier than he had cooped up inside Winterfell.

"Your Grace," Myra said, inclining her head. Arya mumbled the same beside her.

"Not falling to your knees this time?" King Robert started with a chuckle. "You might survive yet."

Myra blanched, and did her best to ignore whatever jests he started to throw her way, because in the back of her mind, she could still hear their conversation in the crypts, and the look that he gave her, like she was the answer to every problem he faced.

* * *

**Cersei**

She hated the North.

She hated the gloominess and the cold and the ridiculous sense of honor that choked the very air they breathed. This was the Starks' land, anyone who wasn't blind, deaf, or dumb could tell that, and it was the last place she wanted to be. At least she had the comfort, little as it was, that the caravan was departing southward, but the North was far larger than it should have been. It would be nearly a fortnight until she could say she was truly rid of it, and the smell of dogs and piss would linger for months.

Despite her resignations, Cersei bore it all with a smile and all the grace she could muster, because being Queen meant sacrifice, and she had sacrificed much to get to the position she was in. If need be, she would sacrifice more to stay there. Power was a hungry beast and even she had yet to tame it.

A throat was cleared, gently, out of a want for attention, not necessity. Her eyes flicked upwards, green meeting gray, and the familiar pang of bitterness returned.

Cersei had never believed the stories. She had not wanted to. That woman's name was a curse to her. The less she was reminded of her, the better, but even she could not deny the likeness of Myra Stark to her late aunt, or, more importantly, Robert's obvious fascination with her.

She never wanted to call herself possessive of her husband, after all the man had whored himself across the Seven Kingdoms and back again, but seeing the image of the She-Wolf in his company again returned memories of her younger self, back when she had believed herself to be in love with him and foolishly, childishly, thought he might love her in return. Then he had called out Lyanna's name instead of hers on their wedding night and shattered every dream she carried. Now she felt the old wound reopen, and she did not take pain well.

They were alone for the time being, she and Myra, in the carriage meant only for the royal family. Out of courtesy, the Stark girls had been invited in as well, though it served a dual purpose. With no prying eyes and sound muffled by the creaking wagon wheels, Cersei could speak as freely as she pleased, and so could whomever she spoke to, if they knew what was good for them. Perhaps she was lucky the eldest Stark was an early riser.

Cersei smiled, knowing the sweetness of it dripped with venom. "Tell me, Myra, how is it a beauty such as yourself has not yet found a lord husband?"

She supposed beauty was accurate enough. There were certainly far more homely girls in the kingdoms, but it was clear her copper-haired sister would outshine her in looks. Still, she would have no shortage of suitors, especially with her father as Hand of the King.

The girl's mouth popped open, but no words came out just yet. It made her look like a simpleton.

"I suppose you wouldn't know, Your Grace, but I was to be married. My betrothed died."

"Yes, of course, the young Bolton boy. It is a tragedy, to be certain, but that was nearly a month ago. Surely your father as thought of someone else."

The young woman fidgeted, clearly uncomfortable with the direction the conversation was heading. She would have to grow more of a backbone if she wanted to survive the game, not that she would know how to play. Honor got no one anywhere in life, except to the grave.

"He may have, Your Grace," Myra admitted, drawing out each word like it was killing her. "But my Father said we would wait. There is no rush."

"How fortunate for you, to have such a caring father."

_And foolish at that._  Cersei thought.  _Does Eddard think himself Baelor the Blessed reborn, hiding his daughters in Winterfell like it were the Maidenvault?_

The North never did care for politics, so she supposed the marriage of its daughters did not matter much either.

"Still," she continued, "there are plenty of young suitors in King's Landing, and I'm certain you'll be betrothed soon enough. I even have a cousin there, Lancel, who may prove to be of interest."

Myra nodded slowly, putting on a smile that the Queen could see right through.

_Oh, little She-wolf, you must try harder than that._

She and Lancel might actually be meant for one another. They could both gawk and cower at authority figures in marital bliss. Her cousin certainly could not ask for better, and no doubt her Uncle Kevan would dote on the girl. She would be the best looking thing in his household.

"I'm certain I'll enjoy his company, Your Grace."

Had she been anyone but a Stark, Cersei might have thought the girl was playing games with her. But the doe-eyed thing had a genuine look upon her face causing Cersei's smile to falter ever so little. She was not used to pleasantries for the sake of being pleasant. It left a vile taste in her mouth.

Cersei glanced outside, taking in the bleak countryside. Normally, she had the curtains closed, uninterested in their surroundings, but she had them drawn today, to give her a distraction from the dead woman's face. She watched Robert plod by on his warhorse, mumbling something about a spear and another hunt. When he was not hunting, he was racing the damn creature with the girl's horse. He never won, of course, he was too fat to do so, but that was never the point. Myra Stark rode like Lyanna, and that was all that mattered.

"It's a funny thing," Cersei started, making eye contact with Jaime before he rode off behind her husband. "Here you are, a woman grown, no husband, a perfect match for my Joffrey, and yet your younger sister is the one engaged to be married."

Again, the girl's mouth opened with no answer, even though it was so obvious. Robert had proposed the marriage between their houses, without her counsel or permission, and he chose Sansa for Joffrey. The image of Lyanna Stark was for no one, not his son, not Rhaegar Targaryen, not even Lancel if he got wind of her proposal. She was only for him.

"Tell me, what does my husband see in you?"

Myra looked to her hands, white-knuckled as they clutched the skirts of her dress. Cersei watched her play with the intricate patterns on the fabric.

"I don't know, Your Grace," she mumbled softly.

"I think you do."

Myra met her eyes. Her lower lip was trembling, but there was something defiant in her gaze, some strength the girl had been hiding.

"He sees a dead woman, Your Grace, and no more."

The carriage door burst open; the younger Starks entered, squabbling about dresses and swords while Tommen followed them going on about some kitten he found hiding somewhere and Myrcella inquired about Robb Stark again. Myra quickly fell into conversation with the children, but her shoulders remained tense throughout the day, and she never met her gaze again.

* * *

**Jaime**

"You spend an awful lot of time with the King," Jaime said to the eldest Stark one evening as they rode side by side. It was the first time he had spoken with her since the banquet.

Myra did not answer him right away. She was staring resolutely forward, at the back of King Robert, or perhaps it was at her father who rode right beside him. If Eddard Stark suspected his friend of any dishonorable actions with his daughter, he certainly hid it well, which led Jaime to believe the man was oblivious to it completely, despite the gossip that raged around their evening camps like wildfire. Between those giggling handmaidens and Robert's dreadful attempts at flirtation, Jaime wondered how he hadn't killed someone yet.

He also wondered how Cersei hadn't.

"Are you jealous, Ser Jaime?" Myra asked, so matter-of-factly he almost missed the sarcasm. He hadn't thought the girl capable.

"Oh, absolutely," he replied, wishing to test her bounds. "Spending the rest of my life as his babysitter just isn't enough for me. I need to spend every waking moment with him, talking of whores and drinking."

The proper little Northern girl returned as Myra looked positively scandalized by his choice of words. She glanced back to Robert, no doubt checking to see if he heard his guard's remarks, which he hadn't. He was too loud to hear anything over his voice, and too drunk to hear anything else not within two feet. It might have been why Eddard had to ride so close to him.

"Why do you speak of him like that?"

"Would you rather I compare him to a knight in one of those songs the minstrels are always on about? That would take a great deal of lying."

Myra was watching him with narrowed eyes, head tilted like she was trying to figure him out. He wished her luck. Only his siblings understood him, and that had taken all their lives.

They grew quiet for a while, listening to the slow hoof beats of their steeds, no doubt still tired from the last run. The King might have been racing, but the Kingsguard still had to chase after him.

Robert always made sure he was the one on duty when they left. He supposed someone had to witness the further insults to Cersei as he took to the Stark girl far better than he ever had to his wife. Rather than hold her in such poor regard like his sister, however, Jaime managed to feel some form of pity for Myra. The strict sense of honor she inherited from her father was doing everything in its power to only encourage the king. She laughed when he joked, she always said yes to his requests, and she never said anything to stop him.

It was going to get her into trouble, far sooner than later.

"Might I ask you something?" Myra asked, breaking the silence.

Jaime shrugged. "I don't see why not."

"You are Lord Tywin's eldest son, and you were his heir until you joined the Kingsguard. Why do that? Why throw it all away?"

_So I could fuck Cersei whenever I pleased_ , he thought glumly,  _though a lot of good that did me._

He could still remember it plainly, when she had come to him, golden hair turned molten by the light of the torches. She told him of their father's plans, how he was to marry Lysa Tully and leave her for Casterly Rock and his duties as heir. He remembered how she touched him that evening, how he had never felt his heart beat so fast, how he had never felt more alive.

"The Kingsguard," she had whispered in his ear before biting the lobe, licking the skin. "Join the Kingsguard and we'll never be apart again. We'll forever be whole."

He could also remember the sight of her leaving with their father while he remained alone to guard The Mad King.

It still made his blood boil.

"Haven't you heard, Lady Stark?" he said after some time. "The Kingsguard is the highest of honors. A man should consider himself lucky to don the white cloak and protect the King with his life."

She gave him a strange sort of look, no doubt a reaction to his previous comments. Cersei would wear the same one whenever he acted this way, unconvinced by his words and frustrated by them, but not willing to show too much of it. Still, he could see it all brewing beneath the surface. Anyone who spends enough time in King's Landing learns to read faces to some extent, and she was certainly not bred to lie.

"Even a man with all of Casterly Rock waiting for him?"

Jaime sighed. "Politics don't interest me. Neither does gold. I like killing things. It's what I'm good at."

Myra appeared to consider it, looking forward again. "Wish I could do something like that: speak a couple words and no longer have to worry."

"The realm could always use more Silent Sisters."

She arched an eyebrow. It made her look impossibly more like Lyanna. "I'm fairly certain believing in The Seven is a prerequisite. You don't find many Sisters in the North."

He snorted. "You don't find much of anything in the North."

She briefly looked offended before it melted into understanding. Myra did not get angry easily, he had noticed, and appeared to be one who avoided conflict at all costs. She certainly would have quite the task ahead of her in King's Landing. Conflict was the favorite pastime.

"No, you don't," she eventually admitted. "I suppose for someone coming from King's Landing, it would be quite the change, but I rather like the emptiness. There's room to breathe and to grow, and no shortage of places where eyes do not follow you. It feels…safe."

There was a pensive look to her as she spoke. Jaime had never thought of Casterly Rock in that way, not since their mother died, and he certainly did not feel it for King's Landing. In fact, there was not much he even loved. Cersei. Tyrion. Maybe even their father in some strange way. Nothing else. There was no need to grow attached to things that would only wither and die.

"No, you really wouldn't like the North," Myra said after a pause, looking to him again. "Not much to kill in a safe place."

To that, oddly, Jaime had no reply.


	6. The Rose

**Ned**

Had he known how much trouble being Hand of the King would become before he even reached King's Landing, he would have stayed in the North.

He found himself storming into the local keep the caravan had taken refuge in for the last few days, his daughter Myra and Jory in tow. For four days, they had searched the nearby forests relentlessly, looking for Arya after an apparent incident with the young prince, Joffrey. The boy had apparently been bitten by her direwolf, but he had heard no more on it, and Sansa was not about to speak of it.

Now his youngest girl had finally been found…and immediately sent before the Queen, who had in turn brought her before Robert, all before informing him. It made his blood boil, his daughter being treated as some criminal. Despite whatever may have transpired at the river, she was the daughter of a lord and deserved better treatment than this.

"Father, what could the Queen possibly want with Arya?" Myra asked as they approached the door to the keep's great hall. Even from outside, he could hear the drone of men whispering gossip and feel the likelihood of a bad ending. "She can't mean to make an example of her. She's a child."

_That's precisely what she means to do._

He would never say it aloud, even the thought felt treasonous, but he did not have to. Myra was adept at reading most anyone, him included. He could see the revelation dawn on her face, her skin paling slightly as she glanced over at Jory. The captain of the guard shook his head, his eyes dark.

They entered the room and all fell silent, guards, both Stark and Lannister alike, watching their every move. At the center of the gathering, Robert sat in the lord's seat, Cersei and Joffrey standing beside him, and in front of him, a small, shaking form in the shape of his daughter. She bolted for him, mumbling sorries over and over as they embraced one another. He passed her off to Myra, who took Arya by the shoulders and held her close.

"What is the meaning of this? Why was my daughter not brought to me at once?"

Robert had the decency to look somewhat ashamed, at least as far as his pride would let him go, but Cersei only held the statement in contempt.

"How dare you speak to your King in that manner."

"Quiet woman!" Despite the situation, Ned felt a muscle in his jaw twitch at the way his friend addressed his wife. "Sorry, Ned, I never meant to frighten the girl, but we need to get this business done quickly."

"Your girl and that butcher's boy attack my son," the Queen continued, her eyes boring holes into Arya. "That animal of hers nearly tore his arm off."

Given the state of the bandages on Joffrey, Ned doubted that very much, but he said nothing. Surely Robert would have noticed.

"That's not true!" Arya countered, stepping forward despite Myra's grip on her. "She just bit him a little. He was hurting Micah."

Others take him, his daughter was not helping.

"Joff told us what happened. You and that boy beat him with clubs while you set your wolf on him."

"That's not what happened!"

Joffrey stepped forward. "Yes it is. They all attacked me and she threw my sword in the river."

"Liar!"

"Shut up!"

"Enough!" Robert shouted, slamming his fist on the arm of the chair. Myra quickly gathered Arya back up, whispering something in her ear. "He tells me one thing. She tells me another. Seven hells, what am I to make of this? Where's your other daughter, Ned?"

"In bed, asleep," he offered. Sansa would barely speak to him or Myra. Being dragged in front of the King would only make her retreat further into herself.

The Queen smiled. "She's not. Sansa, come here, darling."

Now his blood ran cold. In the back of the room, soldiers began to part as a familiar head of red hair passed between them. And there Sansa was, dressed as though she had never gone to bed, with the same look of guilt she would give her mother when caught at something.

This was wrong. It should have been done in private, not amongst all the soldiers. They had no need to see familial quarrels. But the Queen had seen to it that everyone knew, no matter how embarrassing the incident was.

Robert, to his credit, did not look particularly pleased either, but that may have been his desire to get everything done and over with showing.

"Now, child, tell me what happened," he started. "Tell it all and tell it true. It's a great crime to lie to a king."

The room fell silent as all eyes landed on Sansa. She glanced around uncertainly before mumbling, "I don't know. I don't remember. Everything happened so fast. I didn't see."

"Liar!" Arya shouted. Her attempts to physically assault her sister were held at bay by Myra, who had snaked her arms around the young girl's chest and was currently holding her off the ground, though just barely. Arya was flailing like some wild creature, kicking and swiping and practically spitting. "Liar! Liar! Liar!"

"Arya, enough!" Myra hissed, managing to get some form of control over her little sister.

Cersei appeared entertained. "She's as wild as that animal of hers. I want her punished."

Robert looked at his wife as though she were crazy. "What would you have me do, whip her through the streets? Damn it, children fight, it's over."

"Joffrey will bear this scars for the rest of his life."

"You let that little girl disarm you." There were snickers in the background. "Ned, see to it that your daughter's disciplined. I'll do the same with my son."

Ned nodded, happy that cooler heads had prevailed, and strangely surprised that Robert was that person. "As you will, Your Grace."

"And what of the direwolf?" The Queen asked, interrupting the small moment of relief. "What of the beast that savaged your son?"

Robert sighed. "I forgot about the damned wolf."

One of the red cloaks came forward. "We found no trace of the direwolf, Your Grace."

"No? So be it."

The Queen was not done. "We have other wolves."

Ned heard an intake of breath. Though Sansa had yet to make the connection, Myra knew immediately what Cersei spoke of. He could see her grow pale even in the dark lighting of the hall.

"Wolves that have done nothing wrong, My Queen." Myra spoke, her grip loosening on Arya.

"Yet." Cersei centered her gaze on his eldest. "They come from the same ilk. Surely, you cannot expect them to remain obedient to you forever."

Myra had nothing to say in reply, but Ned could see the muscle in her jaw twitch. This was one of those few moments when he could truly see his sister in her, when her rare anger led to a defiant glow in her dark eyes.

"Much as I hate to say it, the Queen's right," Robert said, suddenly appearing at his daughter's side. "A direwolf is no pet. Get a dog. It'll make you happier."

He began to walk toward the door, the crowd silently parting for their King. Ned's daughters all watched, the same look of sadness and fear in their eyes.

"He doesn't mean Lady, does he?" Sansa mumbled. His heart broke for her then. Torn between her family and her future, and now her direwolf may face death. He would ask one last time, but if Robert ordered him, there was nothing he could do. In this terrible world, not even the love of one's children could supersede the orders of the King.

"Father?" Myra asked, looking to him to offer some argument, but he shook his head. There was none to be had. His daughter let go of Arya completely then, and trailed after Robert. "Your Grace!"

Robert turned to her. From there, it looked like history playing out. With his daughter's back to him, Ned might have thought it was Lyanna asking for him to change his mind, although she would probably have demanded it.

"Your Grace, I beg of you, spare the wolves."

"And why should he?" Cersei called from her back, anger evident.

Myra glanced back briefly, but her focus was on the King. "Would you kill a man for the crimes of his brother?"

The Queen persisted. "Are you honestly trying to compare wolves to men?"

"I am comparing injustices!" His daughter shouted without turning, and fell to her knees before Robert. "Your Grace, please, reconsider."

Ned watched the face of his friend, and he could see the internal struggle.

"And what would you have me do, girl?"

"Wild animals belong to the wild, so that is what we'll do. Spare them and we'll drive them from the caravan." Myra paused, glancing his way before turning back to Robert. "Your Grace, don't ask us to butcher them. They are the symbol of our house, which have only loved and trusted us since we found them. Don't ask us to betray that trust."

Robert was silent for a long while, thinking. He never knew his friend to be quiet for long periods of time. He was a man of action, charging forward without thought of the consequences. Subtlety and patience were for weaker men. But here, he paused, looking down at his daughter with a strange look in his eyes.

Not for the first time did Ned wonder if bringing her with was a poor decision on his part.

The King nodded. "The wolves leave tonight."

Cersei stepped forward. "You cannot be serious. These creatures harmed your son and if you won't punish anyone for what has happened to your blood, then-"

"I have made my decision, woman!" The room, once quiet, felt ever more still after Robert's booming voice ceased its echo. "Don't you dare question it."

Robert left then, leaving Myra smiling happily on the floor while dozens of soldiers immediately struck up conversations. Ned chanced a look at the Queen then. Her face was fury and her eyes were for no one but his daughter.

He went to Myra then, enclosing her shoulders in his hands as she stood, and gave her the only advice he deemed fit for such company.

* * *

**Myra**

_You must not do that again, no matter what good it may bring about._

Her father's words after that night in the keep had echoed through her mind for nearly a week. She had avoided the King since then, and everyone else really, other than her family. It seemed for the best. Even without her father's words, she knew that she had stoked a fire in the Queen, one that was not likely to be put out soon.

She had surprised herself that night, standing before the King as she had. Her words would have been nothing, she knew, if it were not for the face that she wore. King Robert was not the sort of man to be moved from a decision once it had been made, but Myra remembered the looks he gave her and the time they had spent together. She thought to try; she did not expect for it to work out as well as it did.

_You must not do that again, no matter what good it may bring about._

Her father knew now, though perhaps he had suspected before, that King Robert's regard for her was overly fond. He would not have her risking herself or tarnishing her name, though Myra hardly cared about that. She could not regret her actions, not after seeing the look of relief on Sansa's face. Though they both had to be parted with their direwolves, and spent the night consoling one another through tears, knowing that they were alive somewhere in the woods brought some comfort. Perhaps they would even return home to Winterfell. Brenna could watch over Robb in her stead. But Myra was growing to accept the hard truth: her direwolf was never to be seen again.

However fortunate their wolves had been, not everyone could be spared that night.

She had held Sansa close, not wanting her to see the image of the dead butcher's boy on the Hound's mount. The next morning, she had held Arya as they helped the butcher's family bury the boy. With her father's permission, she had offered money or some other kind of assistance, but they had declined. After all, what amount of gold could be worth a child's life? Still, she had left a small bag on the windowsill of their humble home. Perhaps one day they would see it.

_You must not do that again, no matter what good it may bring about._

Myra had promised her father, a silent nod in a room full of prying eyes, but could an oath made in uncertainty truly count? If she could make Robert listen to a dead woman to spare a boy's life, surely it was worth it. Why else would the gods have cursed her with this face, if not to make some use of it?

She sighed, hoping to find some reprieve when they reached King's Landing, and knowing full well it would be the exact opposite.

With Arya seated to her left and Sansa to her right, Myra was surprised by how quiet their ride on the wagon had been on the last leg of their journey. She had suspected, especially after the direwolf incident, that the girl's would be at each other's throats. Instead, they tolerated one another in silence, perhaps too angry even for words. She knew that would run out soon enough.

A bump in the road jostled Myra out of her thoughts. She glanced up to a sight that took her breath away.

The Kingsroad had given way to a cliff, dropping hundreds of feet to reveal the endless city of King's Landing. Buildings upon buildings stretched across the countryside, towered over by two greater structures. One she recognized as the Great Sept of Baelor, with its seven towers rising upward to meet the sky. The other, standing in the distance and stretching into the sea, was the Red Keep. Both dwarfed her home by far, and though she was far above them on the cliff, she could still feel their dominating presence.

"We're going to get lost in there," she heard Arya mumble from beside her.

Sansa scoffed. "Maybe you will, going to all the places Father tells you to stay away from."

"Least I don't stay in my room all day pretending I'm too good for anything outside it."

Myra rolled her eyes, ignoring her younger sisters' bickering as her gaze landed on their father. He sat on his mount, eyes staring at the Red Keep, reflecting emotion too powerful for even him to hide. This place had been the beginning of the end for so many things. Not for the first time did Myra wonder how he had been convinced to return.

"It is quite the sight, isn't it, Lady Myra?" Jory asked as he rode up beside the wagon.

Myra nodded, though her eyes never left her father, or King Robert as he joined him and spoke solemn words, no doubt of the past.

"Quite."

* * *

Two days had passed, and the Tower of the Hand was at least starting to resemble something of the North. Though Vayon Poole and his family had accompanied them to King's Landing, Myra took it upon herself to see to the outfitting of their chambers. It had proven to be a more difficult task than she had thought. The room layouts were so different from those back home, and so much more open. The Red Keep was built as a place accustomed to many more days in relative heat, unlike that of Winterfell. Even in the dead of summer, snow was not unheard of.

But here, Myra mused, so many windows were left open. Some were not even built to shut, leaving a build up of leaves and other wild things. She had to chase several birds from Arya's room before her sister decided to try her sword on them. How she had managed to sneak a sword out of Winterfell, Myra had no idea, though she had her suspicions.

It was as she finished unpacking her own things that Myra realized she would have been better off bringing none of it at all. Her clothes were made of material far too thick for the heat of the South, and the cuts, while considered quite normal in the North, apparently left her looking prudish in King's Landing, if the looks of the other highborn ladies told her anything. The ladies here left their arms bare, or their shoulders, or even parts of their midriffs. Septa Mordane had been properly scandalized, and though Myra could not think of herself capable of wearing something of that nature without having a permanent flush on her face, she did admire the obvious cooling effect such outfits would offer.

For the time being, Myra settled with the thinnest dress she owned until more could be made up. It was a dark green, which really did not help in the unending sunlight of King's Landing, with long sleeves that had slits up to well past her elbows. She supposed that was the closest she would get to a sleeveless ensemble for the time being. Still, it helped, along with the breeze drifting in from the sea.

She stood in the gardens (though the word felt entirely too small to describe such a place) of the Red Keep, in an alcove facing the Narrow Sea. And while the sprawling landscape with its layered terraces and exotic flora was truly fascinating, it was the unending shimmer of blue and green that had captured her attention. It made her think of the promise Domeric made her once, and wonder if the rolling waves of the Shivering Sea were just as beautiful.

"I promise you can look away," a voice spoke from behind, startling Myra from her reverie. She turned to face a young man, clad in fancy linens and leathers, as all highborns did, with a stag pinned to his collar. "I've been near the sea most of my life. It's not going anywhere anytime soon."

Myra nodded in greeting. "Lord Renly."

He strode forward, hands behind his back, smile infectious. "We're all lords and ladies here,  _Lady_  Myra. Renly will do just fine."

"Well, forgive me, Renly, if I don't take your advice," Myra replied, turning back to the view. "For so long, I've wondered what the sea looked like, and now that I'm here, I can scarcely believe what my eyes tell me."

His chuckle was deep, reminding her very much of his older brother. "Understandable. Sometimes I forget that Winterfell is far from everything, the sea included."

Myra hummed a reply, eyes focused on the sea but mind drifting back to her home. She had always known Winterfell was isolated, but never realized the extent. Being in King's Landing felt like somewhere other than Westeros or perhaps a different time. How both these worlds could exist at once was amazing to her.

Something red entered the edge of her vision.

She glanced down to an out held rose.

"I'm afraid it is no blue winter rose, but the climate of the South is hardly made for them."

Myra took the delicate offering, turning it over in her hand, watching the petals catch the light. She had never been given a token before, at least, not by anyone freely. Domeric had gifted her things, it was true, but he was betrothed to her. She supposed this was normal for people in the South, the concept of being wooed and courting.

Was she being courted?

Her silence must have been longer than she thought, for she heard Renly clear his throat. "I apologize. I was being presumptuous. I know your aunt, Lyanna, enjoyed those roses; I thought you might as well."

She smiled softly. "Because I look like her?"

To his credit, Renly Baratheon actually paled.

"I…no, I thought…that…I…" he paused then, regaining his composure and smile. "I'm afraid I've been caught in a rather impossible place."

Myra turned away from the sea, facing the young lord fully. He was shorter than many others she had met and did not possess the overbearing quality of his older brother, but there was a niceness to him, a genuine happiness that made him appear far kinder than many other lords in comparison.

Her smile grew. "Indeed you have."

"If it helps," he started, eyes full of apology, "I know what it is like."

_He would_ , Myra thought to herself. While she did not know King Robert in his youth, she could see the similarities between the two, and had heard often enough how many would mistake Renly for a younger version of his brother. How strange they looked together. It must have been a step back in time to behold them talking, to an age when a Targaryen sat on the throne.

"It does, actually," Myra admitted, twirling the rose in her hands. "But you've done nothing wrong, I promise. I suppose I was merely teasing you."

His smile returned, along with his chuckle. "I'd heard you Starks had some sense of humor hidden in you, if only at the expense of others."

"Is there any other kind?"

"None that matter." Renly stepped back, offering his arm. "Would my lady care to join me for a walk? We can walk in view of the sea, if it pleases you."

"There's no need," Myra replied, taking his arm. "As you said, it will still be there."

They walked together in amenable silence for some time, nodding to other highborn youths who were taking advantage of the beautiful day. More than once, Myra glanced behind overgrown plants into little corners where lovers snuck in more than what was considered proper. It was a romantic place, the kind Sansa always dreamed of, not the North, where young boys and girls usually ran to the stables. There was something so right about the wrong things they did. It confused her.

"I take it you've heard of the tournament in your father's honor?" Renly asked, gaining her attention.

"More than once, I'm afraid." Myra looked up to her companion. "He's not exactly thrilled."

"No offense to Lord Stark, but does anything thrill the man?"

Myra could not help herself. She laughed, and Renly joined in soon after. It was perhaps the first stress free moment since everything began.

"Perhaps, but he has yet to show me." Myra trailed off, taking in their surroundings once more. "This place has done so much to him."

"Yes, it has, to all of us I think."

They let the topic go, walking along in a comfortable, albeit somber silence. As the sun began to set, Renly returned Myra to the Tower of the Hand and to her very curious younger sisters, who could not help but notice the flower she carried.


	7. The Red Keep

**Arya**

She was  _bored._

It had been a week since they'd arrived, and Arya was already sick of the Red Keep. Well, she was sick of what parts she got to see, which she could name on one hand.

It wasn't fair! She knew the stories: old passages and secret tunnels built by Maegor the Cruel, so many that people could get lost and die before they ever saw the light again. Rumor was the dragon skulls that once decorated the throne room were hidden somewhere, bones so large they could swallow her whole. And then there was the Iron Throne itself, which she had yet to see. Instead, she had been cooped up in the Tower of the Hand, getting fitted for more dresses she would never wear and sewing direwolf patches.

She missed  _her_  direwolf. At least Nymeria was free, a lot freer than she would have been in King's Landing. She deserved a place without walls and highborn jerks turning their noses up at her. Stupid Prince Joffrey had done something right after all, she guessed.

Sansa missed Lady too, she knew. Her sister was a loud crier, especially at night when she thought no one could hear her. Maybe next time she'd know better than to choose a boy over her family.

But Myra did nothing wrong. She never did anything wrong. Myra was perfect, unlike Sansa who only thought she was. Sometimes Arya resented her for it, but deep down, she was always grateful to have someone like her to fall back on when she was in trouble.

Like at the keep. She got the King to stop and saved their wolves. Arya could not figure out how. Sansa said the King was just smart like that, but she didn't believe her. He would not have bothered trying to execute them in the first place.

"Why did the King listen to you?"

Myra tilted her head, confused.

They were sitting on the balcony outside their quarters, taking in the early morning sun. None of the stupid windows shut, so the crack of dawn always managed to wake them up. Not Sansa, though. She would sleep well past midday if Septa Mordane didn't drag her out of bed.

"Back when you saved Lady and Brenna," Arya clarified, picking at a loose string on her breeches. It was easy to get away with wearing them when their septa was not around. Myra never cared much. She wore them herself, but not now; she had on one of those new dresses she had made, the kind not meant for the North, but to make all the young lords take notice.

And they had. Their father had to practically chase them out of the tower. Jory told all the guards not to let anyone in who did not have official business with the Hand of the King. That never stopped Renly Baratheon, though. He  _did_  have official business, and then he came right to their quarters and grabbed Myra for a walk.

Sansa called it romantic. Arya had other words for it.

Myra frowned, looking back to the sea. She did that a lot.

"He listened to reason. I just happened to be the one speaking it."

"Father spoke with reason, but the King didn't listen to him, and he's supposed to be his friend."

Had Arya thought to consider more than just her undying curiosity, she would have noticed how tense her sister grew, how her grip on the armrest tightened. She might have even caught the flicker of uncertainty in her eyes.

Instead, she got the warm smile of an older sibling explaining life in a way only they could. "And that was the problem. Sometimes it takes someone who isn't a friend to knock some sense into you."

"The King seems awfully friendly to you."

Myra's hand went to her face. "Arya…look…"

"It's complicated, right?" she jumped from her seat. "That's what everyone likes to say when they don't want to explain anything."

"You know that isn't what I mean."

And deep down, Arya did, but she had committed and her stubborn attitude would never allow for a change of heart, not this early. She thought to head to her room and clean Needle again, not that it was needed. There was nothing for her to stab with it. Well, there  _was_ Prince Joffrey, but even her sister would not be able to get her out of that mess.

As she crossed through the common room, a knock came at the door. Moments later, it opened, revealing Jory and some woman. She was dressed plainly, well, as far as the South was concerned, and sported a tan complexion with raven hair.

Arya heard her sister approach from behind. She wondered if Myra still liked Jory. He wasn't Renly Baratheon, but when they were younger, she and Robb had caught her and another lord's daughter in the stables making  _those_  eyes at him. They'd followed her around the castle for nearly a week making kissing noises until their mother finally snapped and offered they do the same to the Captain of the Guard.

She missed Robb. And Mother.

"Lady Myra," Jory started with a quick bow of his head. "She is here for you with a message from the Queen."

The woman stepped forward, her lilac dress just skirting the floor. She was slightly taller than Myra, her hair done up in the way the Southern girls liked it to make her look taller still, until she dropped in a curtsy.

"I am Syrena, my lady, your new handmaiden. The Queen requested I join your service as a highborn lady such as yourself should have more than just her septa to rely upon."

She had a thick accent, making her words a little hard to understand. Jory seemed to get it, though. He looked like he was hanging onto each word.

With a raised eyebrow, Myra looked past the woman to him. "That will be all, Jory, thank you."

The Captain's mouth snapped shut briefly. "Yes, my lady. Lady Arya."

He added that last bit with a wink.

Arya stuck her tongue out at him.

She liked Jory.

But not like  _that._

"Well, Syrena, while I am pleased to meet you," her sister started with a shrug. "I am afraid you have me at a loss. I never had a handmaiden back home. What am I to do with you?"

The handmaiden smiled, teeth bright. "While I may not start your fires or draw a bath for you, I  _am_  here to see that it is done. I can accompany you wherever you like, act as a messenger, and help you get dressed."

Arya's lip curled. "People can't get dressed by themselves?"

Myra looked embarrassed but Syrena merely chuckled. "Southern fashion can be very complicated, my lady."

"That's silly. It's just clothes."

"True enough. I myself prefer something simple, but I am not subject to criticism."

"Well, you won't see me in one of those fancy dresses."

Myra rolled her eyes. "She will if you want to attend the tourney."

Arya stuck her tongue out again.

"Is there anything you need help with, my lady?" Syrena asked. "If not, I will see to moving my things to a nearby chamber."

"Actually, I do have one question. One of the dresses I received seems to have a lot of…parts."

Syrena laughed again. "I see, my lady. Shall we decipher its language?"

The two walked away, chatting animatedly about dresses. Arya rolled her eyes and went to her own room, wondering if they'd replace stabbed pillows or just make her sleep on them.

* * *

**Myra**

Syrena, as it turned out, was nothing short of a blessing to the out-of-place Northerner. Beleaguered by the prospect of navigating the intricacies of Southern fashion, propriety, and even gossip, Myra found her new handmaiden was full of useful advice and insight. The important thing to remember, she had said, was to never look defeated; the outcome of a situation was far less important than the impact on the individual. It made no sense to Myra but nothing south of the Neck did.

Her handmaiden was Dornish, having grown up on the Narrow Sea in a family of sailors. How she wound up in King's Landing was 'a sad tale that no one needed to be burdened with.' Nonetheless, Syrena took life in stride with a shining personality even her father had found refreshing, having muttered something about girls and war.

Normally not one to gossip, Myra quickly found herself engaging the handmaiden in it daily, awing and giggling at the latest stories. Nothing terribly damaging, she had her limits, but simple, silly things that seemed far too important to people who clearly had nothing better to do in their lives, such as the matching of colors and particular sleeve cuts. They were things she had laughed about with her brothers and it was the kind of company she missed. Syrena, at least, would not come to her room smelling of sweat and steel.

It was some time later, a few days before her father's tournament, that Myra and Syrena found themselves near the training grounds, and they were not the only ladies who had turned up. The grounds were in the middle of a giant courtyard, surrounded on all four sides by the keep, having openings above for highborn ladies to gaze down upon the knights and whisper about which they had their eyes on.

The grounds were filled with as much the sound of clashing steel as giggles for every time a knight would successfully defeat an opponent. He would turn to the spectators, flourishing his sword and bow grandly. The young ladies would smile and fan themselves. It had repeated several times over the course of an hour or so.

Most of the knights did seem to be in it for the show. Some looked to be testing out their opponents strengths, but for the most part, they appeared to be boasting.

Except for two.

Beneath the alcove they occupied, Ser Jaime Lannister and Ser Arys Oakheart were locked in a rather heated duel. Unlike the grand displays of the other competitors, those two actually seemed out for blood, abandoning all graceful moves in favor of tactical advantage. It produced a far different dance, both brutal and erratic, but also far more appealing than its clearly choreographed counterparts. She had yet to take her eyes off the battle.

Jaime had seemed the sort to never fight unless one meant to draw blood, which made him more Northern than either of them would ever admit, and Ser Arys was no more likely to wind up with one of the spectators than his Kingsguard counterpart, since they were sworn to take no wives. They had no one to impress, only themselves, and the only proper way to train was like they meant it.

The duel very much reminded her of ones she had seen Robb and Jon take part in at home. Usually one had angered the other, so they would sit about all day letting it stew until Maester Luwin had given them leave to go. Then they would storm to the training yard, grab wooden swords, and beat one another senseless until they were bruised and bloody.

Except Jaime and Arys were using real steel, and it was starting to make her nervous.

"Do you fancy one of them, my lady?" Syrena asked, stirring Myra from her thoughts. "You've scarcely taken your eyes off them."

Myra gave a very unladylike snort. "I fancy real sword work."

"Ah, you are not a fan of displays?"

"No. Sansa is. She used to make me read romantic tales of knights and princesses over and over. Frankly, they bored me. I prefer the real ones."

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Syrena smile. "You would do well in Dorne."

Arys took a great, arcing swing toward Jaime which, had the Lannister not dodged, would have taken his arm clean off. Instead, he took the opening to slice at Arys' exposed left side. It was a glancing blow, but enough to slice through the leather covering his hip.

And just like that, everything was over. The fighters, breathing hard and dripping in sweat, halted where they were and called it a match. Across the square, spectators applauded, Myra included.

The two dispersed without so much as a look at one another and in no time the strutting began again amongst the other knights.

"Ser Arys fought well, but he was never a match for Jaime."

Myra nearly jumped as the Queen herself appeared by her side. She and Syrena barely got in their curtsies and 'Your Graces' before she continued.

"He's a favorite to win the tourney. If our little brother were here, he'd likely bet all his money on him. As such, my husband has done the opposite."

Despite the subject of King Robert, something Myra thought she would never have brought up willingly, Cersei hardly seemed fazed when she mentioned him. She looked almost reminiscent as she glanced down at the training yard. Jaime looked to be on the verge of drowning himself as he rapidly downed water cups offered to him. He hardly noticed as some squire took his sword away.

She was not certain why the Queen had come under a banner of peace, as it seemed, but she was not about to ruin the comfortable mood by bringing up anything that had transpired between them.

"Is it true, Your Grace," Myra started slowly, "That Ser Jaime does not need to practice?"

Cersei turned back to her, a smile tugging at her lips, though it seemed forced.

She turned to Syrena. "Would you leave us?"

Her handmaiden bowed her head and shuffled off. Myra watched her exited, suddenly feeling utterly defenseless. Their conversation on the Kingsroad had left her shaken, and she had yet to interact with the Queen after countering what had been her order regarding the direwolves. Now whatever peace there may have been between them felt as though it were slipping away between her fingers.

A small part of her began to wonder if the jump would kill her.

"It is about as true as saying he was born with a sword in his hands," Cersei answered, any hostility she may have possessed not yet present. "My brother is many things. Perfect is not one of them."

As if sensing he was being spoken of, Jaime glanced up to their spot. He inclined his head before disappearing back into the keep. Cersei continued to watch the spot, as if willing him to reappear.

Myra missed her twin.

Robb would come inside from practice, curl up in the Great Hall with a book Maester Luwin had recommended, and pretend to read it until she had come down the stairs. Then he would proceed to ask her everything he needed to know. She loved her brother dearly, and he had a great mind for strategy, but history and politics? He may as well have all the tact of a fox left in a chicken coop.

Something told her she and the Queen were similar in that way, the quiet minds to the raging bodies of their brothers, but she would not speak that. It would only add fuel to a fire that she could not hope to know how large it had grown.

"I have come to apologize," Cersei said suddenly. "That affair on the Kingsroad was beneath me, regarding both my husband and your wolves. It was…extreme, but ladies of the court have to fight for every moment. Perhaps it is different in the North."

Myra had the distinct feeling Cersei was not apologizing, at least not by her 'Northern' definition. It was an excuse, crafted in such a way that if any blame were to be found, it would be on differing customs, ignorance, mostly on the part of her. So, in a way, she may have been blaming her for simply not understanding.

Or perhaps the Queen was dreadful at apologies. She certainly seemed the type who did not have to do it often.

This game the Southern lords played, full of masks and hidden intentions, was difficult, and not one she was particularly interested in playing.

"There is no need to apologize, Your Grace. It was a frightful affair, and I am merely glad that it is now behind us."

There was a look in her green eyes, one she could not quite place. Her brothers were easy. They were dreadful liars and even worse at covering emotion, but the Queen was a different beast entirely.

And beast, Myra noted, was beginning to be an apt description.

"Well, perhaps we can begin to assist one another then. I see you have taken to the handmaiden I sent you."

Myra nodded. "Yes, Your Grace, Syrena has been most helpful, especially with adjusting to King's Landing."

"As I can see," Cersei replied, giving her a once over. Her dress was pale blue in color, and far lighter than anything she had packed. She had described it as akin to wearing nothing, resulting in a chuckle from her handmaiden. Her sleeves were, again, cut to the elbow, but it was the change in neckline that had made her hesitant to walk outside the door that morning. Her shoulders were very much exposed, as was much of her chest, the fabric finally pick up its slack when it reached the top of her breasts. She felt terribly exposed and so…pale next to the other girls.

Although a small voice in the back of her mind liked to remind her that the looks young lords gave her were not the worst things she had encountered.

Myra might have blushed on the spot if she did not remember her company.

"You and your sister are well suited to this place," the Queen continued, unaware of her self-scrutiny. "The North has too few eyes, and fewer who would use them."

Compliments were not meant to make one wary, yet Myra felt a chill in the summer heat.

"There are those who would prefer it that way, Your Grace."

Was this the game, she wondered, every sentence said one way but meant as another? What a web it spun in her mind.

"Perhaps," Cersei hummed, pausing. "Would you walk with me? I have something to discuss with you."

"If it is your dear cousin, I do believe she can wait, Your Grace," a voice interrupted, halting Cersei in her tracks. "Lancel Lannister is not someone I would subject any fine lady to."

Her savior came in the form of none other than Renly Baratheon, a smug smile playing on his lips that came from the prestigious position of being the King's brother, and thus being able to make such a comment without consequence.

Or much of one, that was.

Myra might have shriveled and died at the look the Queen was given her good-brother at the moment, but Renly only smiled wider. It must have been a common occurrence.

"Lancel is a fine member of House Lannister," Cersei replied, forcing her face into some form of neutrality. "Any lady of the court would be lucky to have him."

Renly chuckled. "I don't recall either you or my brother saying anything remotely as kind as that before. You sound more like Kevan."

"My uncle is an honest man."

"Your uncle is also his father."

They were at a market, and she was the meat being haggled over. She had known this was often the case for daughters of lords, but feeling it for the first time herself, she felt so small. Is this how her father had spoken to Lord Bolton and the other Northmen? Surely he had been different.

"And tell me, what possible use could you have with her? Your interest in such objects wanes so easily," Cersei replied, sneering at Myra. She appeared satisfied at the paler look that had bloomed on Renly's face, and took her leave, her Kingsguard trailing behind her.

"Well, that should make things interesting later," Renly said as he watched her disappear down the corridor. "Truly, though, you have been spared. If Lancel didn't open his mouth, you'd be quite confused as to which party he belonged to."

Myra said nothing to that. She merely watched Renly, trying to get a read on him. What Cersei said cut deep, so there had to have been some truth to it, though it was so buried under subtle reference that Myra could not begin to guess if she tried.

"What did she mean?" Myra asked, her voice back. She supposed it was too much to ask for a straight answer in this place.

Renly frowned. It looked so strange on him. They had spent a great deal of time together, and his mood had always been jovial. Even if the subject was less than ideal, he always turned it to something better. Only now did it occur to her that this man striving to spend so much of his time with her was still a complete unknown.

"We've all done things in our youth we aren't proud of. Given the age difference between Robert and I, Cersei was around to see most of it."

He moved to the railing, leaning on it to better watch the knights. "She likes to do that, twist mistakes, your very being into something it's not, until she convinces you it was the truth the entire time. And then she has you. That lion's claws aren't easy to escape from."

Myra nodded slowly, seeing some truth to it. "And what of you, Renly?"

The Lord of Storm's End snorted, his humor back. "Only thing I've twisted was my ankle when I tried besting Jaime at the sword. It might be the only truth to their lot, that he is good."

"I thought he was the best?"

With a smile, Renly returned to her side, linking her arm in his. "Remind me to introduce you to the Knight of Flowers."

* * *

**Renly**

"Would you stop fidgeting?"

With a sigh, Renly forced himself to stand still. It wasn't his fault he was not built to stay in one place for hours getting primped and powdered or whatever Lora fancied doing that particular day. He actually had responsibilities, as terrifying as it still sounded to him. He had the Small Council, and matters for Storm's End. Not to mention the silly little scheme he'd been mixed into. And then there was Stannis.

Gods, help him, if he got another letter with the damned Dragonstone sigil, he was going to burn the ravenry.

It was Robert's decision, and a good one at that. No one liked Stannis. Not even Stannis liked Stannis. The people needed someone they could feel comfortable with. Even Eddard Stark smiled once in a while.

"You're doing it again."

Renly looked down to a mop of curled hair kneeling by his hip. Loras was straightening something on his armor, though he could not say what. Names escaped him. He survived by pointing.

"Well, maybe if you'd stop taking your sweet time."

That got him a look. "We need to make sure you're just right for the tourney. Can't have the Lord of Storm's End looking like a slob."

"Don't see what difference it makes. You're going to win anyway."

Something tightened a little too far.

"Flattery isn't going to get you anywhere," Loras replied. Renly thought to add it had gotten him  _somewhere_  but Loras' hand was dangerously close to a fragile place. "You have a part to play. Can't woo the Stark girl without some effort."

Renly closed his eyes and sighed. He really wished he's stop letting Loras drag him into these things. Shave him? Fine. Dress him in armor he can hardly move in? Alright. But court Myra Stark?

"Do I really have to go through with this? Myra Stark is a sweet girl, really, but I think there are a few…complications with this arrangement." He ran a gloved hand through Loras' hair. "You, for one."

Now Loras sighed. He stood, done fiddling with whatever strap was down there, and looked him in the eye. They looked quite lovely when he was frustrated.

"You know exactly why we have to do this. Don't pretend to be so daft, Renly."

He rolled his eyes. "Yes, yes, your sister wants a shiny crown, but I don't see why I have to be sacrificed."

"Well, believe it or not,  _Lord_  Renly, you're going to need heirs. That requires a wife, and Myra Stark would make a perfectly acceptable one. Not to mention you could use someone who knows what they are doing in the Stormlands."

Renly frowned. "I know what I'm doing."

"But you aren't in the Stormlands, are you? In fact, I can't remember the last time you were there."

Loras had a point, as much as Renly hated to admit it. Though he took his responsibilities seriously, he also liked to avoid them. He had been the third son after all; he had maybe a knighthood or just a drunken livelihood to look forward to in his youth, then Robert had to go and make himself King. To him, it still belonged to Robert, if not their parents. He felt like a child playing at adulthood.

Taking his silence as a weak moment, Loras pounced. "You'd need a son and then you won't have to deal with her again. She'd have all of Storm's End and a sea of people who would adore her; she could do worse. You've seen the way your brother looks at her."

He had. All of King's Landing had. And word had gotten out of what she had done. No one changed Robert's mind, not without a row full of curses and blood, but she had done it. The damn girl's face had his brother under some sort of spell. He thought he was fifteen years younger, the impressive warrior that bested the Last Dragon. It was embarrassing, really. Renly could deal with a drunken Robert, but a love struck boy was another matter entirely.

"It would be merciful on your part, taking her from him, and I know how much you like to play the hero."

Renly snorted. "If you feel so bad for her, marry the girl yourself."

"Unlike you, I'm still the third son," Loras said as he grabbed a goblet. "If you're really not up to the bedding task, we can always have your brother do it and claim the bastard as yours."

Something akin to guilt knotted in the pit of his stomach. "You Tyrells certainly are something else, aren't you?"

Loras paused, and then nodded in understanding. He put down his wine and clasped Renly's shoulders. "Renly, I know this whole affair makes you uncomfortable, but you must think of the bigger picture. Your brother is no king, we both know that, and Cersei…she is poison, all the Lannisters are. The Seven Kingdoms needs someone strong and capable of managing. Margaery has the keenest political eye, aside from our grandmother. If anyone can tame this situation, she can. But if you don't take Myra away, Robert will see her next to him, one way or another. She'd break under a crown, if Cersei does not break her first."

"You're telling me we're doing this for the greater good? Not just so your sister can have a new trinket?"

"Something like that."

Renly sighed, considering his options. Really, he didn't have any, but he liked to pretend a lord still had a choice in the matter.

"Alright, alright, I'll make a grand show of things at the tourney. The court gets a thrill out of those." He tried to move but found his joints painfully constrained in his new armor. "Now help me out of this damn thing."

"With pleasure."


	8. The Iron Throne

**Myra**

In all the time she had been at King's Landing, Myra had never stepped foot in the Great Hall. And it was not until she crossed the threshold, having left Septa Mordane and Sansa to their daily lessons, that she realized the true reason.

She had been avoiding it.

As far as seats went, the Iron Throne was not as large as the storytellers made it to be. Had she the courage to stand beside it, the swords that formed the back would make it to maybe her shoulder, and if she were perfectly honest, she could not image King Robert fitting in the thing comfortably.

And yet, it had this…presence. It was alive somehow and with the eyes it did not have, the throne was watching, studying, judging. Kings had bled for it and it had made them bleed, and she dared to stand in its presence, this insignificant speck in the grand scheme of its game.

Not for the first time did Myra wish she had never left the North.

"Marvelous, isn't it?"

Myra jumped, farther and faster than she would have liked. Her hand flew to her mouth, however, preventing other embarrassing actions on her startled body's part. She had thought in a place as large and open as the Great Hall, she would have heard anyone approach, though she supposed the man behind her was not quite anyone.

"Lord Baelish," Myra mumbled when she regained some composure, handing moving to her chest. She had passed him a few times in the halls of the Tower of the Hand as he went to or came from heated discussions with her father. The Master of Coin was a different sort of man, one who did no hiding and seemed perfectly content with the world knowing he was scheming. Perhaps, in some twisted way, it made him the most honest man in King's Landing.

"I did not hear you."

"That seems quite clear," he said with a strange sort of smile. He was not a small man, per say, but his stature was hardly like that of other lords in the keep. She was nearly taller than him, in fact, and Sansa would likely grow taller than the two of them; she imagined a great many people underestimated him because of it. "My apologies, Lady Myra, I often forget I don't have clamoring footsteps as opposed to some of my armored counterparts."

"No need to apologize. I fear I may not have stirred if a stampede broke down the doors."

The corner of his mouth twisted, almost a smirk, but far more calculating. Yes, her impressions of the man said that he was always thinking, a mind never still, filled with plans. Her father had not so subtly insisted she have as little contact with him as possible, but here they were, alone, because of a curiosity she had to quench, her handmaiden and septa nowhere to be found.

"Which brings me back to my previous question." He stepped forward, closer to the dais than she had dared. Whatever affect the Iron Throne had, Petyr Baelish appeared immune.

"What do you think of it?"

He did not turn back to her. Myra believed if she slipped out at that moment, his question would be forgotten, as would she. Perhaps its affect was merely different to him.

"It's not what I expected." Myra took a hesitant step forward, watching the blades that formed the throne as if they would spring to life and skewer her. It was a silly notion, something made for Old Nan's tales, yet her heart fervently believed it to be true.

"Things seldom are," he replied, turning to her. "This place especially. What you must realize is that nothing here happens without a purpose. Everyone has a plan and not one step is taken unless it coincides with that plan."

Myra looked back at him, her gaze steady. She studied his eyes, knowing full well she could not pick out the truth, but perhaps there were other things to see. They were serious things, those light irises, and she could see all the intelligence cooped up behind them, waiting, knowing, testing. Yes, of course, a test. What had everything in the capital been but a test?

"Does that include this conversation, Lord Baelish?"

The man many referred to as Littlefinger chuckled. "Perhaps you aren't as helpless as I thought."

If that was meant to comfort, which she was positive it was not, it did a dreadful job at it. The confirmation that people believed she was some simple girl with little knowledge of anything outside of her little world was disheartening, and made her feel smaller than she already did.

Gods help her, how many plans was she caught up in?

As if reading her thoughts, Littlefinger smiled. It seemed too sweet for his face, a feature not meant for a man of his profession. "There is no need to worry. I made a promise to your mother. You're quite safe with me."

"My mother?" Myra's eyes narrowed, finding even his form of honesty lacking. "Why would you do such a thing for her?"

For a moment, she let herself believe he actually looked hurt. "It seems Catelyn is not one to discuss ancient history. We knew one another growing up. I was her father's ward, and when he betrothed her to your uncle, I fought for her honor. I would have been split clean in half if she had not spoken up, though I still bare the scar."

She watched him trace a line from his belly button to his sternum and bit her lip. Myra knew the story of her Uncle Brandon, but often forgot. Given the affection her mother and father had for one another, it was difficult to imagine her married to anyone else, especially one as bold and brash as Brandon Stark. He was a brutish sort, far more imposing than her father was, and the fact that Littlefinger had survived such an encounter was a testament to her mother's persuasion.

"I am sorry that happened to you," Myra offered, not sure how else to confront a man more or less proclaiming his love for her mother. "But I do not see how it applies to me."

"I never stopped caring for Cat, and though she will never see me in that way, it still drove me to promise her your family's safety before she left."

Myra paused, whatever previous words she had in mind dying on her tongue. Littlefinger struck her as a man who never said anything without each word having been carefully considered, yet what he had said could not be right.

"My mother has not been here, Lord Baelish. Not for some time."

The smile he gave her was pure confidence, a skilled player watching his prey walk into a trap. "It seems your father has begun to adapt. He has secrets of his own to keep."

She stepped forward, nearly to the dais, away from his gaze; she did not want him to see her face, not now. All the thoughts running through her head, they were hers alone. And there were so many to sift through.

Her first was that it was a lie, but that would help no one, Littlefinger most of all. But if he was not lying, he spoke the truth, and that felt far worse. Her mother had been in King's Landing. To have come and gone already, she would have left not much longer after they had. Could it have been Bran? No, they had gotten the raven. He was awake and feeling awfully sorry for himself, but alive. She had cried. Sansa cried. Even Arya had not bothered with her usual sass. For a few moments since they had arrived in the capital, they were a happy family.

Then what? Robb spoke of nothing in his letters, missing her and her smarts mostly, but there were times she felt his words were on the edge of something…else. Could it be the reason their mother had abandoned Bran's side and come to King's Landing all her own? She had not come to see her children, not even left word. Her father had gone about his day like nothing had happened.

Something was terribly wrong.

"Why tell me this?" Myra asked, clasping her hands together to keep them from shaking. Her family problems could wait. She had a man who knew far too much about her life to deal with first. "How do you know? What is it that you even know?"

"I know a great many things. It's my job to," he replied, once again at her side.

He was dancing around the subject, like so many others. She was tired of dancing.

"I thought that was Lord Varys."

Littlefinger shrugged, turning his back to the throne to face her. "He has his birds, and I have mine. And the Queen, she, too, has hers, messenger boys and…handmaidens."

He placed a hand on her shoulder. Myra glanced down at it, expecting it to turn into something misshapen or burn through the fabric of her dress. It did no such thing, only left the feeling of something cold.

"Your family has stumbled into something they are not equipped to fight. No swords or honor will save you here." He leaned in. She wanted to turn away, but his words seemed far too important. "Unlike what your father believes, ignorance is not safety, not for you, Myra. You are in far too deep to stagger through this blindly."

She tried to keep his gaze; she wanted to be strong, she always had to be strong. Her father was relying on her; her sisters were relying on her. But all she wanted to do was disappear. Not once had she asked for the position she was in. All she had ever wanted was kindness and to give kindness in return, and for that, King's Landing gave her its back.

The throne was watching her again, only it was no longer empty. Robert sat upon it, his face stern, eyes like fury. On his left stood Cersei, her face hiding nothing of the contempt she felt. And to his right, a figure that blurred between Lyanna and herself, both covered in blue petals. A crown of roses rested upon her hair.

"Tell me," she whispered, eyes not leaving Robert. "What do they say about me? Do they say I am her, or that I am his?"

"They say a great many things, and it depends on who you ask, but yes, Myra, they do say that."

Her jaw tightened, setting her mouth into a firm line. Something had budded in her chest, something she did not know the name of, but it gave her strength to look Littlefinger in the eyes again.

"And how do I get them to stop?"

He chuckled again, though the mirth never met his eyes. "Why, you give them something else to talk about."

* * *

**Jaime**

He had not meant to walk in on them, but as his terrible sense of luck would have it, there he was in the Great Hall, watching the Master of Coin wrap another victim up in his grimy little plans. It would be the Stark girl. Running circles around her seemed to be everyone's pastime as of late.

Jaime did not like the man, not that he liked many others, but as opposed to the eunuch, there was something about Littlefinger that made his sword hand twitch every time he laid his eyes on him. How badly would a weasel truly be missed? The King didn't need a Master of Coin if he was just going to keep taking from the Lannister vaults anyway.

It was with the image of Littlefinger's blood on his sword freshly in his mind that Jaime decided to make his presence known. The man looked as though he had known the entire time, or maybe his face was always that way. It was hard to tell really. But, of course, Myra Stark looked surprised, caught like a child in the wrong. Her problem was that she thought he actually gave a damn about what they were talking of. That was Cersei's area of expertise, not his.

"Every time I come down here, you're staring at that thing," he started, looking at the throne. "It's starting to become pathetic."

"Well, not all of us want to dispose of the current owner in order to sit on it."

"I should hope not. It's terribly uncomfortable. Hardly worth the trouble."

He could remember all the blades, still sharp as the day they were forged, poking at his armor and tearing his bloodied cloak. Aerys had always complained of cutting himself on them, his arms and hands covered in scars. He complained that the throne was against him, just as everyone else was; he complained that the Kingsguard was useless and that Jaime was only good as a pawn. He complained and he shouted and he burned…

"You've sat on the throne?"

The question was small, overly curious, a thought spoken aloud that was meant to remain silent. At least, that was what Myra Stark's face told him. She'd gone paler, her pink lips pressed together in a firm line, preventing other ridiculous questions from escaping.

Littlefinger was all too happy to answer. "That he did, with the dead king at his feet no less. It must have been quite the sight your lord father walked in on."

His hand was twitching again. How nice it would be to just run him through.

"He was there, actually." Jaime pointed to his right. He could still see Aerys' blood pooling on the cool tile, a red cascade down the dais steps. His lips still moved, wordless, but Jaime knew what he spoke. It was the only thing he could say before the end.

_Burn them all._

"If we're going to talk king slaying, we may as well get it right."

The look Baelish gave him was smug. "Yes, of course. Where he died is very important."

Where  _you_ killed him was what he meant to say, but even Littlefinger knew better than to play that game while he was armed. He'd remind him of his favorite scar before dealing with it.

The Stark girl was still staring at the spot he had pointed out, as if the stone had actually begun gushing blood. Her eyes looked around, wide and curious, as if taking in the place for the first time. Given the family history, he supposed one would find such a place…different. He still expected dragon skulls to line the walls every time he entered.

"They died here," she murmured, not so much a question as confirmation.

Ah, speaking of…

"Yes, Brandon and Lord Rickard. It is a shame what happened to them," Littlefinger offered, but Myra was not listening. Her eyes were focused on him with a strange sort of determination he had not seen in the passive girl before.

"You were there."

He was. Of course he was. Aerys did not like doing anything without his pet Lannister at his side. One would have thought it was his greatest accomplishment, robbing Tywin Lannister of his heir.

Jaime sighed, realized what she was getting at. He stepped on the dais, resting his hand upon his sword. "I'm not here to entertain you with talk of old glories or whatever the opposite is. You wish to speak of history? Grand Maester Pycelle will bore you to death with it."

Myra blinked, all that determination vanishing in an instant.

She gave a quick nod of her head. "Very well, Ser Jaime. Lord Baelish."

The girl turned to leave, steps slow and cautious. Her head turned to and fro as if seeking out the answers in the walls. They may very well have answered her; the keep had enough secrets after all.

"Pretty thing," Littlefinger muttered when she was out of earshot, "but frightfully unprepared. That seems to be the fate of all Starks who come here."

The Master of Coin turned and left, heading toward the Small Council chamber, yet his words remained. Jaime watched the young Stark. It figured the noble Eddard Stark, in all his efforts to protect what family he had left, was in turn damning them. He wondered if the man bothered to realize, or if that had something to do with his honor too.

Something twisted inside.

"Your uncle died where you're standing," Jaime called out, watching Myra stop in her tracks. She whirled to face him, surprised.

She was not the only one.

Seven hells, what was he doing?

He stepped off the dais, approaching her. "After your aunt was taken by the prince, Brandon and other Northern sons rode here and demanded Rhaegar's death. The King had them all arrested for treason and demanded their lord fathers come to the capital."

The Great Hall began to change. All the old dragon skulls returned, Meraxes, Balerion, Vhagar, Caraxes, Silverwing, Tessarion, he knew them all, every tale. Aerys recounted them constantly, obsessed with his dragon blood, his lineage, the king who would never fly.

The windows darkened, smoke filled the air, the constant burning of wildfire choking while pyromancers shuffled across the room, their robes soiled and minds diseased. How the Mad King loved his fire.

And all the while, Myra watched, waited.

"He executed them all, save for some Glover boy. But your family, no, he had something special for them."

The hall filled with faces, a good many dead ones. They watched on, as silent as Myra, but far more guilty.

"Lord Rickard demanded trial by combat, which Aerys was more than willing to accept. However, House Targaryen was not represented by a man, only fire."

He watched her eyes widen, mouth part slowly. Part of him wanted to end this nonsense, but another wished to continue. He'd never had a captive audience before, not without his sword bloodied that was. It was something he spoke of too little, or perhaps not at all. He could not even recall telling Cersei the details. She did not want to know; she called them idiots. Rhaegar was a fool, Lyanna a fool, sometimes even their father.

Even him.

Perhaps he was.

Jaime pointed to the rafters. "Your grandfather was strung up…just there, in full steel armor over a pit of fire. And Brandon stood where you are now, a sword just out of his reach and some Tyroshi contraption around his neck. The more he reached for the sword, the more it choked him."

He paused, recalled the moment in perfect clarity. The light leaving Brandon's eyes, the last of Lord Rickard's screams. Above it all, an old man cackled as his throne cut his skin to ribbons.

Jaime blinked, looking back to Myra. "Brandon strangled himself as his father cooked in his armor."

Back then, he had been a young man, not entirely untested, but still green in the eyes of many. At the first opportunity to be alone, he'd gotten sick. The smell would not leave the hall for days, and food never quite had the same appeal.

"And no one tried to stop him?"

Suddenly, the room was bright and empty again, save for a lone Stark, who was watching the ceiling, transfixed on one spot. She did not cry, but there was no mistaking the emotion in her eyes.

He snorted, his sense of self returned from whatever place it had been. "No one would stand up to their king. It was the wrong thing to do. Plus, the prospect of burning like a roasted boar wasn't very enticing."

Her eyes snapped to him, angry, though she said nothing. He supposed comparing her dead grandfather to an evening meal wasn't exactly courteous.

Oh well.

It was not as if Lord Rickard cared much anymore.

"Did you want to stop him?"

Her question gave him pause. He looked at her, watching him with those gray eyes, the anger already gone, replaced by something…else, and wondered what she could possibly gain from knowing what he wanted.

Yet as he thought on it, the words tumbled out, a mere whisper. "There were a lot of things I wished to stop."

They stood that way for a long time. Myra looked on the verge of saying something, but the words were not coming out. He wondered if she would sound like her father when she finally spoke.

He did not expect her to step closer, not that they had been near one another, but a man of his…morality was not quite inviting. Briefly, a hand reached out before tucking back in with the other.

"Jaime, I-"

"Kingslayer!"

He closed his eyes and sighed, willing away the bellowing stag, but King Robert seemed to be his punishment. Quickly, he glanced down at Myra, but her attention had turned elsewhere, not to Robert, the dais maybe. She looked thoughtful.

Had he pegged her as anything but self-interested, Jaime might have though his sister should be worried.

"You keep terrible company, Myra," Robert continued as he approached them. They both nodded in respect, but did not do much more. "What in the Seven Kingdoms could you possibly want to discuss with a Lannister?"

A great many things, apparently.

Myra's lips pursed. "I simply wanted to know more about the Kingsguard, Your Grace. My brother always dreamed of joining. I thought to write him about it."

The irony was inescapable.

Her lie was dreadful, of course, but Robert paid no mind to it. He couldn't see past the pretty face.

"Better off with the Lord Commander than this one." He gestured behind to Ser Barristan, who was accompanied by Ser Preston. They did a lovely job at pretending they weren't listening intently. "A kingslayer might skew your brother's understanding."

"Then allow me to apologize, Your Grace, for any error in my judgment," Jaime spoke, voice strained. He'd have ground his teeth if it wasn't too obvious.

"No need to apologize, Ser Jaime," Myra blurted, attempting to play along. "Truly, I'd like to thank you…for everything."

He nodded once. "Of course, Lady Myra."

She smiled gently, the first genuine one he had seen in…well, some time. Not even Cersei smiled anymore, not in the way she should. He was starting to think the girl actually liked him. She couldn't be a Stark then; even the bastard Jon Snow inherited the hatred for the Lannisters.

Then again, if she knew the truth of the situation, she'd fit right in.

"Where are you headed?" Robert asked, ignoring their exchange entirely. "Someplace interesting?"

Myra shook her head, the cordial woman of court once more. "No, Your Grace, just my room. I have a good deal to write about."

That certainly wasn't a lie.

"You should get yourself a scribe. It would do you good."

"Then it wouldn't be a personal letter, Your Grace."

The King chuckled. Out of his line of sight, Jaime rolled his eyes. Myra briefly narrowed her eyes in his direction, but said nothing.

"So be it then." Robert turned to his other Kingsguard. "Ser Preston, escort her back to the Tower of the Hand. Come, Kingslayer, we have a whore to discuss."

Myra opened her mouth, but immediately shut it with an audible 'click.' She turned to him and nodded, that look back in her eyes from when they had been alone. "Ser Jaime."

"Lady Myra."

He watched her leave with Ser Preston, striking up a pleasant conversation along the way, and some small part of him wondered what had just transpired between them.

"You coming, Kingslayer?"

No, it wasn't important. Nothing in this damn place was.

* * *

**Ned**

She was watching him again.

His daughter thought she was subtle, glancing his way every time his quill met paper, but he was not blind. Her letter to Robb had not grown past a sentence since she sat down after supper, and that was near on an hour ago. Given her other missives were nearly too large to send by raven, he knew something was wrong.

Still, he waited. Myra was not Sansa or Arya. She did not stew in her troubles until it boiled over in a fit of rage. If there was something that needed to be said, she would come to him on her own.

But gods be good, she was taking her time.

It was about the twelfth time he caught her looking over that Ned had enough. He put his quill down, his own letter utterly forgotten, and leaned back in his chair. They were in his study, he at his desk, she a chair near the window, her letter catching the last light of the day. She had managed to jot down one additional word.

"Alright, Myra, out with it." She blinked, silent. "Don't give me that look. You've wanted to say something the whole time you've been here, so either speak your mind or leave it to rest."

His eldest opened her mouth, but immediately shut it again, thinking better of her words. For a moment, he thought she might actually drop the subject, which was not unheard of on her part, but then she sighed and set the letter aside. Whatever the words were, they weighed heavily on her. He supposed it would be too much to hope for something simple, like a quarrel with Renly Baratheon, but Myra was not petty. She could hand the young lord on her own, which was why he had said little on the matter; she seemed happy, and the match was a good one. Lord Varys practically sang about the two of them. And Renly was the honorable sort, or so he'd heard.

Gods help him; he was too old for daughters.

"She was here, wasn't she?" Myra finally asked, drawing Ned from his thoughts. He felt his blood run cold at the question, and could not bring himself to answer, prompting her to continue. "Mother."

Ned looked to his letter, full of unanswered questions and suspicions. He could not look her in the eyes. "How do you know?"

There was no point in denying it. She would know.

He did not look up when she slid out of the chair to take a seat across from him; he did not see that she could not look at him either. "Lord Baelish."

_Others take you, Littlefinger._

This was meant to be a secret, not only for the safety of their family, but to keep suspicion from the Lannisters. They did not need to know that they knew, that they plotted, in some small way. He wanted his daughters to feel safe, even if they were far from it.

"She wanted to see you. I wanted to let her, but too many people knew she had come already."

"What does that matter, father? Why did she even come?"

Now he dared look up, watching his daughter's pleading eyes. She was too innocent for what she asked for. "What did he tell you?"

"Only that I am too…involved to be left in the dark."

Ned sighed. He was referring to Robert and perhaps by extension the Queen. Littlefinger had mentioned as much, in the few times he permitted the man to talk about his family. The Queen was not to be trusted where Myra was concerned, where Robert was concerned. He might have brushed off the 'advise' had it not been for that night on the Kingsroad. If Myra were to know more about the Lannisters than she ought to, Cersei may find out. She may find out anyway.

_Robert, why must you put me in these positions?_

He should have sent her home the instant it happened, should have made her stay in Winterfell with her brothers when he saw his face. Robb had known, and had practically chastised him for it. His son was shaping up to make a better lord than his father, who was a much weaker man.

And his daughter, kind and knowing as she was, could sense the turmoil in him at that moment. She reached across the desk, taking his hand into her much smaller one. Was he not the one to comfort her? How could he have brought such beautiful children to such a horrid place?

"I am sorry, Myra, for all that has happened, for all that may happen. You deserve better than this."

She smiled softly, a motion that reminded him of her mother rather than his sister; she did not look like a Tully, but had all their kindness.

"There is nothing to apologize for, Father. Whatever happens is beyond our control." Her grip tightened. "But please, let me help. The lone wolf dies…"

But the pack survives.

He nodded, but the conversation was not for this place. By the time this was all over, he might be a paranoid man.

"Come with me."

Though the sun had set, the Red Keep still bustled with activity. Lords and ladies scattered to various evening gatherings, stumbling in drunkenness and laughing at jokes unheard. With so many in King's Landing for the coming tournament, the building practically buzzed night and day. Surprisingly, there had been few incidents. A scuffle here and there, but nothing serious, no blood.

The same could not be said for the city, however.

Myra followed wordlessly through the various halls and stairwells, until they came to the stables. It was the safest place he could think of. A whorehouse was certainly no option. He had briefly considered riding out as well, but whatever ears there may have been listening were far less dangerous than the daggers littering the streets of King's Landing.

At the sight of him, the stable boys cleared the area. Ned wondered who they belonged to.

His daughter fed her palfrey a carrot, waiting patiently.

"You mother came here with Ser Rodrik," he started, as slowly as he dared, delaying what he could. "Her hands were cut, and she bore the blade that did the deed. It was of fine make, forged of Valyrian steel…it was a blade meant to kill Bran."

Myra gasped, moving a hand to her mouth. She turned away from the horse, approaching him, all her attention focused.

"Your mother held the attacker off until Bran's wolf tore his throat out."

Her hand lowered slowly as her eyes searched the ground, lost in thought. He could see her put together what few pieces there were, the same ones that led them to this very moment.

"But why kill Bran? He is an innocent child, unless he…" She stilled, a cold realization dawning on her. "Bran didn't fall, did he?"

"Your mother believes he saw something, something that could be devastating if he remembers it."

"But he remembers nothing."

"No, he does not," Ned admitted with a shake of his head. "But whatever it was, the Lannisters are involved."

This made his daughter pause, her brows knitting together. "How do you know this?"

Ned nearly laughed, though he knew not why. "Lord Baelish…he admitted the dagger was his, once, until he lost it to Tyrion Lannister in a bet."

There was a long moment of silence. Ned watched Myra mulling all the information over, taking it far better than he expected.

"That can't be right," she said eventually, surprising him. "I've spoken to Tyrion. He did not seem the sort to do such a…vile thing."

"Do you doubt Lord Baelish?"

"I doubt many things he says," she admitted, "but I believe a good deal too."

Ned nodded, understanding the complicated nature of their situation all too well. "Nevertheless, the Lannisters are up to something, and Tyrion is a Lannister, no matter how friendly. Do not trust him…or Lord Baelish for that matter."

"Should we even stay here?"

He sighed. Yes, how he would have liked to go home. He would have loved to tell Robert to keep his damn titles back in Winterfell, but Robert was no longer just his friend. He was his King, and his King had needed him; he still needed him. The storm that surrounded Robert Baratheon was not one he could withstand alone.

Ned walked over to Myra, placing his hands on her shoulders. She seemed so small again, a child alone in a world much too large for her.

"We are in a dangerous place, Myra, far more dangerous than any of us realized, but if we leave now, if I send you girls away now…"

"They'll suspect, and we may never know the truth." Myra nodded in understanding, her gaze solemn. "Winter is coming."

He cupped his daughter's face in his hands, kissing her forehead. "Winter is coming."

They embraced. The way she held him took him back to a time long ago, when old storms drove a frightened girl to his bedside. She clung to him then as she did now, afraid for her life and unwilling to let go. And just as he had done then, he indulged her, and allowed her to remain as long as she dared, for what they faced was an unknown.

Though deep down, Ned Stark might have believed it was already Winter.


	9. The Tournament - Part I

**Myra**

The first time she ever saw blood, it was in the godswood. She and Robb often hid there, knowing it made the septas, as well as their mother, uncomfortable. But they were children of the North and had nothing to fear of their old gods. So they ran around the heart tree, catching its leaves as they fell, unwary of its crying face.

It had been a shriek the likes of which she had never heard, high-pitched and strangled, and in utter pain.

A rabbit sat just inside the wall, dropped by some besieged hawk. Its white fur was stained red, body mangled, a foot twisted in the wrong direction, yet the poor creature lived, and it was screaming.

Robb wanted to kill it, and she had slapped him away. With the body in her arms, her dress covered in its blood, she had run back inside the keep crying. Through tears she had begged Maester Luwin to do something, but his face grew solemn, though his eyes remained soft. He gave the rabbit something to drink (milk of the poppy, she realized later, enough to kill it) and led her to her father's solar.

That day, the Lord of Winterfell gave his daughter her first lesson on death.

Myra could not help but think of that rabbit as she watched the poor knight from the Vale bleed out in the dirt beneath her. Completely innocent yet doomed to die, she wished someone would go to him in his final moments, but she was rooted to her seat. Her eyes were transfixed on the lance tip lodged in his neck, the blood seeping onto his newly crafted armor. Here was someone's son, dying far from home for the entertainment of his fellows, and all they could do was watch.

A dangerous place indeed.

Finally, his spasms ceased and collective breaths were released. Two squires dragged him off the field, and Robert, momentarily sobered, shouted for the next round and another goblet of wine.

To her left, Sansa appeared pale, but retained all the composure a good lady of the court ought to. Inwardly, she was probably congratulating herself. On her right, Arya watched in fascination. The look on her face was something different entirely, a curiosity that no one should have.

"We should pray for him later," Myra said as the crowds began to murmur once more. "Ser Hugh deserves that much from us."

"An excellent idea," Septa Mordane agreed with a nod, as if they had just decided what wine to take with their meal rather than how to mourn the dead. "To have witnessed such a tragedy, it is only right."

The only tragedy was how little people felt for it.

Proving her point, Arya made a face. "What's the point? We didn't know him."

"Arya!" Septa Mordane shouted, but her sister would not recant. She never did.

"But we didn't!"

"To know a man at his death is to know him better than anyone has." Myra could not remember where she had read the line, but it had been one that stuck with her. She could recall telling it to Robb and Jon after their first execution.

"True words, my lady," a voice spoke just above her. Ser Barristan gave her an approving nod, which she returned. Robert had remembered her small lie regarding Jaime and the two had spoken for some time regarding the order. She found him an honorable, kind man, one her father greatly admired. Once she pressed him on the subject of the Mad King but was only met with a sad look and an excuse.

The King mumbled something about shitting and took another swig from his goblet.

"Still seems silly," Arya continued, arms crossed. There was not a person alive who could match her sister's stubbornness.

A figure leaned forward from Sansa's right. Littlefinger had joined them some time ago and taken up a conversation with her sister. While not overly comfortable with the way he whispered to her, Sansa did not seemed distressed, but even so, Myra strained to hear every word. Unlike her or even Arya, news of conspiracy would not bode well for Sansa. For all Myra's difficulty with lying, her sister was far worse.

What words did he hope to snare her with? What sort of friendship did he mean to extend? Everyone had a plan. He had said it himself.

"Perhaps I should pray for him in your stead."

Myra eyed him. "You do not seem the type, Lord Baelish."

He gave a knowing nod before sitting back. "We all have our secrets."

Indeed.

Her father's words had felt truer than ever, and she had avoided Littlefinger for some time. She was wary of him, promise and all; she was not her mother, and she had not heard his vow. Besides which, a man with a mind like a maze could never be trusted with such things.

Had she read that somewhere too?

Ser Jaime was next on the tilts, against Lord Bryce Caron. Some mumbled bets but most spectators knew better than to risk their money against the Lion of Lannister.

"The Kingslayer is going to win," Arya announced, sitting up eagerly in her seat, her annoyance forgotten.

"Well, of course he is," Sansa replied. "No one beats him."

Kingslayer. Myra had not been aware how freely that word was used in King's Landing. Back in Winterfell, her father had quieted them quickly on the use of that word, but he was not here, and neither Septa Mordane nor any of the lords or ladies seemed to take issue with it, the King least of all.

Myra thought it cruel how Robert acted toward his good-brother and sworn guard. Perhaps he did so because of the dead or perhaps it was because of his wife. Either felt a poor excuse to her. He had pardoned Jaime for his crime after all, even if it was to keep Lord Tywin at bay, and Cersei…well, she certainly wasn't her brother's doing.

She watched him chat with is squire, face obscured by his ornate, lion-shaped helm. From head to toe, he was covered in gold; even his sword glistened of the stuff in the sunlight. He was the knight all the minstrels sang of, all the ladies swooned over, all the tales spoke of, prowess and pride rolled into perfection, and yet…

Kingslayer.

Perhaps she was strange, and in King's Landing that was becoming more and more apparent, but she could not call him by that name. Even thinking it felt unfair. There was a truth to it, certainly, but it was a truth long dead, a truth that had brought a terrible war to its end.

Now there were others truths to worry over.

The Lannisters were plotting. Her father believed it, and he never believed in anything without a great deal of proof, and a Valyrian steel dagger once covered in her mother's blood was a fairly convincing thing.

But like Tyrion, this crime against Bran did not seem like Jaime. To attempt to kill a boy in such a nefarious method seemed to go against everything she had seen him stand for, a man who preferred to do things himself, out in the open, not in shadows.

Though that did not mean he was clueless about his family's dealings, she supposed. The Lannisters were not noted for caring for much. Their family was the exception.

What had Bran seen?

Ser Jaime and Lord Caron passed one another, both lances landing brilliantly on their marks.

"C'mon, Kingslayer, is that the best you've got?!" Robert shouted. More bets were placed.

Jaime raised his new lance in reply, and proceeded to knock Lord Caron clean off his horse in the second pass.

No, Myra decided, she could not suspect him of the matter. The Queen possibly, but Jaime was of a different sort. At first she had thought he was just callous, a little too confident like her brother, his humor dark and unforgiving, but that view had changed the other day.

The story of the death of her grandfather and uncle was one that she knew, though not in the great detail that Jaime had provided her. She was surprised he had conceded to her request, and given what transpired as he wove the tale, it made her more curious as to why he had.

He had not been aware of the emotion that played on his face, the way his eyes searched certain areas for something familiar that no longer was. Jaime had relived that moment, and for a while, she felt herself there as well, the heat of the fire on her face, the screams of the dead echoing across the chamber. In that moment, she had seen the young man he once was, so unsure of the world he had sworn himself to.

_There were a lot of things I wished to stop._

Maybe she ought to have been grateful to the King for interrupting when he had. Those last words he had spoken in their privacy were not meant for her, she thought, not meant for anyone, just the man who was playing his part. She had not known what to say to him at that moment, perhaps something too deep. The words were lost to her now. All she could recall of that moment was that for the first time, she did not use his title.

The crash of lance against shield knocked Myra from her thoughts. Two knights she did not recognize were dueling, Jaime's golden armor long since disappeared.

Only time would tell, she supposed, as to what pieces stood where.

The rest of the afternoon progressed slowly. No more men lost their lives, but the constant shattering of lances had somehow grown boring to her. Until, that was, the last contenders for the day were announced.

Renly Baratheon rode his steed across the field to great fanfare, his deep green armor a contrast to Jaime's gold. His helm sported great antlers, much like his brother's once had. He seemed quite regal on his charger, every bit the gallant lord, yet something about the image did not quite fit.

His opponent was Sandor Clegane, whom appeared to be quite bored with the whole affair, sitting atop his horse with disinterest, hound helmet open for all to see. Myra pictured a redheaded lad across the saddle and turned away.

At the King's signal, both men charged at one another to loud cheers and whistles. This time there were many bets placed, pitting Sandor's anger against Renly's popularity it seemed. The wagers continued straight into the first clash, when the Lord of Storm's End flew full-bodied off his charger, landing with a loud crack.

Myra stood with a gasp, hands clasped to her mouth. All around, spectators stood, clamoring for a view. Squires ran to the place where he fell, Robert shouted for answers, and distantly Myra could feel Septa Mordane's hand on her shoulder.

A moment passed, then another, and then from the flock of squires, Renly Baratheon emerged to cheers, his helm short an antler. He seemed no worse for wear, save for his pride, and Myra breathed thanks to the gods.

With a gracious bow to Clegane, Renly began to cross the field, purpose in his stride. He walked right up to the stands and stood before Myra, winded and red.

"Perhaps next time I should ask for my lady's favor," he proclaimed loudly, handing her the antler. "After all, the wolf is greater than the hound."

"How poetic," Littlefinger murmured. Renly paid him no mind.

Myra could not help but feel there was something bigger to this display, that she was committing herself to him in a way she had not thought of, or rather she had, but not expected.

The Lady of Storm's End.

She smiled, grasping the ornament tightly. "And I would give it to you."

There were cheers. Sansa looked ready to burst when Renly kissed her hand. It was like a story unfolding, but that was all it was: a story. She knew that now, or perhaps she had always known but never accepted. There were certainly worse fates than a pretty lord in a large castle.

And she had given the people something else to talk about.

* * *

**Sansa**

The day had been perfect.

Her first tournament, and it had been everything she could have wanted and more. The beautiful knights in their gilded suits of armor atop finely groomed steeds, their banners drifting in the wind, ladies of the court from all parts of Westeros sat in ornately crafted dresses, colors vibrant like a painted canvas. Even Arya had decided to not be annoying that afternoon, and that alone would have satisfied her.

Even better, she was not at the feast now.

The knights had traded their armor for finer garb, the swords for dinnerware as dozens gathered for the first feast of her father's tourney. So many courses had passed by, and yet the kitchens did not seem to be done. Sansa had gotten her fill ages ago, and graciously passé don whatever morsels were offered after, choosing to sip on the bit of wine Septa Mordane had allowed her.

The two of them sat to the left of the King, a place of honor, but Myra had been moved to the right. She sat with Renly, chatting and laughing as if she never belonged anywhere else. The Knight of Flowers, Ser Loras, had stopped by them as well, only adding to the mirth.

How wonderful it had been, watching him offer a token to her sister. He wasn't going to be king, but Renly Baratheon was the Lord of Storm's End, a much finer place than the Dreadfort. The two of them could be close to one another. They could visit one another constantly. Their children could play with one another.

She wondered if marrying Renly would also make Myra her aunt.

Once, she had posed the question to Septa Mordane, and the woman laughed so hard she spilled her drink.

Sansa did not think it was that funny.

All her thoughts of marriage turned her back to the one problem spot in the whole affair: Prince Joffrey. He still had yet to speak with her since the river. She knew he must have been angry. No one was punished, not even the wolves, but surely he realized Lady had not been at fault. He had seen her stay at the camp.

After all this time, Sansa had hoped that Joffrey would realize Lady being alive and safe made her happy, and perhaps one day they could find her again and all would be well.

Joffrey had his Hound. She wanted Lady to look after her children.

Their children.

Did he still want to marry her?

In the center of the tables, a minstrel began to play his lute. The conversations softened as the audience began to take in the notes, only to strike up again when they realized the song. The Bear and the Maiden Fair was a favorite, and soon the lords and ladies filled with drink began to drag one another onto the floor, performing the worst renditions of dances anyone had seen, and yet they all looked so beautiful to her. The swirls of color and the laughter, women lighter than air floating across the floor while their knights attempted to keep time with the song.

A spot of green passed out of the corner of her eye. Myra and Renly had taken to the floor, their colors nearly matching. Of all the couples, they danced the best. Sansa had not even been aware her sister knew how, but she and Renly glided across the floor like lovers of legend.

Sansa sighed. She wished Joffrey would ask her to dance.

She chanced a glance at him. He was still seated, drinking from a goblet. He did not look particularly pleased at what he was watching, so Sansa let that small hope die. She resumed watching the other dancers, marveling at it all.

"My lady."

Glancing up, Sansa almost thought that Joffrey might have changed his mind. Instead, she found herself staring into the most beautiful pair of eyes. It was the Knight of Flowers himself come to speak with her.

She did not dare hope…

His hand extended to her, smile warm and bright. "It seems a shame for a beauty such as yourself to be left as an onlooker. Come, let us show these fools how it is done properly."

Sansa hoped she was not blushing. "I'm afraid I am not very good, ser."

He chuckled, like a sweet melody. "Nonsense."

And then they were gone.

She had but a moment to glance at a very much asleep Septa Mordane before they joined the thrall on the floor, Lady Sansa Stark and Ser Loras Tyrell. It was suddenly easy to understand how Myra danced so well: the atmosphere was intoxicating. She, too, felt light and able to do anything, and with Loras' strong grip, she felt entirely safe to try.

"They look lovely, don't they?" Loras asked after some time, eyes straying to Renly and Myra. The two had since stopped dancing and taken up a conversation with Ser Beric Dondarrion.

"What Lord Renly did at the tourney was wonderful," Sansa admitted. "People will be talking about it for a long time."

"Yes, they will." He smiled, looking proud. They must have been good friends.

The music began to slow, and Sansa considered retiring for the evening, the wine rushing to her head, when a shout brought everything to a halt. One of the performers even broke a string on his harp.

"No!" bellowed the King from his seat. His face was red, and his tunic stained with food. The Queen was standing, utterly still. "You do not tell me what to do woman!"

The table shook as his fist smashed against the surface. Goblets tumbled and grapes rolled off the edge. Septa Mordane stirred and looked about in a confused daze.

Myra moved toward the table with Renly behind her, trying to pull her back.

"I am king here, do you understand?!"

If the Queen had anything to say, it went unspoken as she gathered her skirts and left, Lannister guards following her out.

Ser Jaime stepped forward then, placing a hand on the King's shoulder, but still in a fit of anger, the King shoved him, and the Lannister fell with a clatter on the floor. Someone stifled a giggle.

The King looked not about done with Ser Jaime, his goblet wavering in the air, when Myra appeared and planted herself firmly between the two men. Renly stood to the side, mumbling something she could not hear.

For a moment, Sansa thought she might have gone backwards in time. She saw Myra defending Lady, and a raging man calming under her gaze. She knew her aunt was to have married the King. Did she do the same to him?

"Have you come to tell me what to do as well?" the King asked.

"Of course not, Your Grace." Myra stood tall and her voice never wavered. "A king does as he pleases."

There was a beat, tense and drawn out. Sansa held her breath. Everyone did.

King Robert lowered the goblet. He looked past her sister. "I can still knock you in the dirt, Kingslayer, remember that."

Ser Jaime stood. "Of course, Your Grace."

Conversations took up again as Robert accepted another goblet from Renly. Myra was speaking to Jaime, but he brushed off whatever she said and stalked to a dark corner. She, too, took a goblet from Renly and engaged both Baratheons in conversation. Her smile was gone.

"Your sister is awfully friendly to the Kingslayer," Loras mumbled at her side.

"I hadn't noticed."

The dancing failed to take up again. Ser Loras, having lost interest, left her alone to help Septa Mordane back to the Tower of the Hand.

* * *

**Myra**

Her head was spinning. Or was it the bed?

A single eye opened, faced the cruel, bright morning, and promptly shut again.

No, the whole castle was spinning.

The last time she had drank so much, it had been her and Robb's name day. They had both been so drunk, Robb collapsed in the hall outside his door and did not move all night while she had attempted to kiss Jory as he tried to get her up the stairs. Jon had been found in the stables the next morning.

They had not actually drank much for dinner, but when their parents had gone, Theon brought a drink fit 'only for a kraken.' For once, he must not have been exaggerating. He was the only one who ate breakfast that morning.

Her stomach rolled at the thought of breakfast. Myra curled into a ball and willed the pain away.

She blamed the King for her state, and were she not utterly hung-over, she might have felt bad laying it all on him. After his little spell at the feast, her father's words about interfering had come back to her with a vengeance, and she began to drink as much wine as both Robert and Renly offered to make her forget it.

Oh, what a complete fool she had been! Standing up to Robert at a lone keep amongst soldiers was one thing, but in the middle of King's Landing at court? Had she not already felt like death, the prospect of gossip would have kept her in bed.

Her head hurt too much to think about it further, so she buried it under a pillow and tried to think of calming things. The sea, the vast fields by her home…

The sound of footsteps outside her door.

_No. No._

The door opened, and she swore the hinges were screaming.

"Good morning, Lady Myra."

Was Syrena…screeching?

Myra opened her mouth to reply, but only a moan escaped her lips. As it accurately summed up her current situation, she left it at that and silently willed the handmaiden away.

There was a chuckle. "I thought it might come to as much. I have brought just the thing to help."

At the thought of some form of relief, Myra made an attempt to sit up. Unfortunately, her perception was more than slightly skewed. Her hand hit open air and she tumbled onto the floor in a mess of sheets and her eveningwear.

"My lady!" Syrena shouted, rushing to her side. "My lady, are you alright?"

"Yes," Myra mumbled from under her mess of hair. "No…how did I get here?"

"Lord Renly carried you to the Tower, but Lord Stark took you from there. I do not think the thought of him alone with his drunk daughter sat well with him."

Myra leaned her head against the mattress. "Well, there we have it. I cannot face anyone again."

Syrena laughed again. "Come, my lady."

With a great deal of help from the handmaiden, Myra managed to crawl onto a chair and sit relatively still as she worked with whatever state the previous night had left her hair in. The tea she had brought, which stunk of something unmentionable and was so thick she thought there was no possible way it was liquid, managed to not only settle her stomach, but ease the throbbing of her had. She did not bother asking what it was. The answer would most likely spoil the concoction for her.

As Syrena deftly wielded a comb through her hair, Myra noted that she did not fill the silence with her usual gossip. It gave her a moment to think on Littlefinger's words, on the Queen and handmaidens under her employ. The woman herself had given Syrena to her.

"What do they say about me?" she asked, wanting something to fill the void, even something as vile as what King's Landing gossip spoke of her. A glutton for punishment was the eldest Stark.

There was a pause. "Nothing terrible, my lady."

That sounded worrisome.

"Such as?"

"You and Lord Renly are one of the bigger subjects. There are many jealous ladies over his affection toward you." Well, that was not so bad. "But then there was…the King."

Ah, there it was.

"A good many servants have seen such tantrums, and they had yet to see someone so boldly step up to him, much less succeed at the endeavor, and I have no doubt they told their households as much."

With a groan, Myra rested her head on the table. Her father would have most certainly heard. Littlefinger undoubtedly told him himself. She could picture the sly smile on his face.

"Some have considered…I don't have to continue. Very few say such things."

Myra twisted her head to the side. "Very few say what?"

Syrena huffed. She placed the comb down and actually moved to sit beside her. Her dark eyes were sympathetic, her round face still beautiful despite the frown. If she was the Queen's, she was very good.

"There are a few who wonder if…Lord Renly is receiving 'damaged goods,' and that he plays along at the behest of his brother."

"Well…fuck."

It was the only word she could think of for the situation, and it was accurate enough. Strangely, however, she did not seem to care much about the words, despite their cruelty. Perhaps it was because she knew they were not true, and that no one had ever witnessed more than that. Maybe King's Landing was finally starting to rub off on her. Suddenly, all the prickly attitudes of those who lived here were starting to make sense.

There was a snort.

Myra watched her handmaiden's face contort until she burst out laughing, arms clutching her ribs. It was contagious and soon, she too was laughing. It did make her feel a great deal better.

"I apologize, my lady. To see you use such language…it is strange," she managed in between giggles.

"You should speak to my brother, then. He knows a thing or two about my language. It's usually directed at him anyway."

"Perhaps he should visit," Syrena offered, standing again.

"He'd never leave Winterfell. Not without a good reason."

"That is a shame."

"I suppose it is."

It wasn't. Robb would not last more than a day. Her tact, as naïve as it was, was still leagues ahead of what little her twin had. The game would have driven him crazy within a few hours and he would have ridden out of the city first chance he got. No, Myra would not wish this place upon him, or anyone.

Another moment of silence passed, during which Myra decided she would be alright. If Renly was using her, he was protecting her as well, or at least trying to. She did not give him much opportunity last night, all but dragging him toward Robert.

But he had  _tried._

"My lady, might I ask something?"

"Of course."

She felt the comb go through her hair, gently picking at the knots. "They say you ran to Ser Jaime's aid…"

Inwardly, Myra groaned. She had forgotten about him. Truthfully, she had wanted no trouble at the feast, and for Robert not to harm anyone. Had anyone else been the victim of his outcry, whether it was Ser Barristan or even the silent Ser Mandon Moore, she would have stepped forward. It was her way. Instead, she had stood between the King and Ser Jaime, and what an utter fool she must have looked. He no doubt thought of her as some love-struck simpleton.

Well, she supposed there were worse ways to be regarded.

"Are the two of you…"

"Close?" she almost laughed, though in her mind, Cersei had spoken the words. "Far from it. I believe he barely tolerates my presence. He just happened to be the man the King struck down."

She hoped the Queen would believe that.

"It was brave of you."

"Stupid, more like. My father told me to never do such a foolish thing again."

"Then why did you?"

Myra sighed, thinking on how to answer. She had nothing to hide, she supposed. If the Queen wanted to play her games, she could try, but it would do nothing for her. "I will not change who I am because of what others may or may not see."

"That is a dangerous game to play, my lady."

It seemed that no matter what she did, she was in danger.


	10. The Tournament - Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Possible trigger content ahead

**Ned**

"You didn't bring my token."

"Am I supposed to? You aren't competing anymore."

"Well, no, but it would have been nice."

"Are you pouting?"

He let the conversation between his daughter and Renly Baratheon fade into the background. Any day now, he thought, and the boy would come to him to ask for her hand. How strange it would feel to him, an image long past of Robert and Lyanna. But that was not it, no, and he should not think of it as such. It would be an ill omen, even if much of this felt…fated.

Sansa kept glancing up at the two of them, a sort of dreamy look in her eyes. As far as he knew, the prince had yet to speak to her again. He supposed she needed something to look to.

To her right, Littlefinger said something. Now here was a development he did not care for. He had needlessly involved one daughter in their affairs.

Above them, just to the left of where Renly and Myra sat, the two somehow coordinated again in shades of blue, Robert was strangely silent. Perhaps he had lied a little about no one wanting to strike him. Jaime Lannister would have, and Robert would have gone at him with such ferocity, at least one of them would have wound up seriously injured.

Although, Ned noted, Robert was unlikely to be unhorsed.

It was a terrible joke, yet somehow he could still hear his friend laughing.

Jesters that had been rolling about in the dirt for entertainment took off suddenly and the jousting began again. There were only three left that day, and the first belonged to Ser Jaime Lannister and Sandor Clegane. The introduction of the latter brought little fanfare, while the former received a great deal of shouts, and quite a few words from Robert's position.

"One hundred gold on the Kingslayer," Littlefinger declared to his right.

"I'll take that bet!" Renly shouted from above. "The Hound looks hungry."

He supposed the young Baratheon would know.

"And what does the lady think?" Littlefinger asked.

Ned glanced back to his daughter, who was rolling her eyes. "The lady thinks this cruel sport should end already."

He nodded. It was good to know this place had not changed her. Although, given the other night, he might have wished the opposite. Ned supposed it was much to ask of Myra, going against her better nature, but standing up before the King in the midst of his court was…dangerous, foolish, almost treasonous if spun the proper way. But when they had spoken, she'd had no regrets, and her eyes glowed with a familiar defiance that asked him to tell her she was wrong. He had given in with a sigh and a warning, which he knew she would take to heart.

The two jousters passed each other, and Sandor Clegane was nearly unhorsed. Cheers rose in the commons. Robert had gone silent again. Sansa was quiet, entirely captivated, while Myra gasped at every movement.

They went at it again, only now Jaime Lannister was the one in trouble. He fell off his steed, headfirst, and rolled in the dirt for some feet. The crowd stilled while Robert roared with laughter.

"Is he alright?" Myra asked.

"Of course he is," Renly reassured her. "A Lannister wouldn't dare die at a tourney. Now, Lord Baelish, about that gold of mine."

The young Baratheon was right. Jaime got to his feet, unscathed, although he appeared to be having some difficulty with his helm. It was dented, and in no time it was obvious to nearly everyone that he could not get the thing off.

Laughter filled the grounds, the most boisterous belonging to Robert. He'd dropped his wine goblet, and the crown was threatening to fall from his head. Even Myra, his normally composed daughter, was biting her cheeks as she watched the Lannister stumble blindly through the dirt.

"We shouldn't laugh," Myra mumbled, though her warning was ineffective as she broke down into giggles.

"Aha!" Renly called out, triumphant. "I knew you would come around. No one is that kind to a Lannister."

Yes, no one.

After the jousting had finished, when they had concluded the terrible business with Ser Gregor Clegane and Ser Loras Tyrell, Ned walked alone with his daughter toward the archery field. Sansa was being escorted by Jory, oblivious to the state of affairs that he and Myra knew.

"Tell me, is there something else you wish to speak to me about?"

He watched her carefully as they walked down the path, straying far from the other nobles. She looked confused and then thoughtful, her fingers playing with a loose bit of her dark hair. Perhaps she had more to speak of than he thought. It was a troubling notion.

"Is this about last night?"

"In part," he admitted, steering her away from the path. There were so many eyes, even now. "Ser Jaime…what is he to you?"

His daughter's reaction was…unexpected.

She laughed.

It was neither loud nor long; it almost felt out of exasperation. His daughter looked so different to him then. In the span of a few, short months, she had aged, the troubles of Westerosi politics bearing down on her with unmatched force.

How he wished Robert had not traveled North.

"I am sorry, Father," she said, taking a breath. He watched her look about the grounds, seeing everything but taking none of it in. "Ser Jaime is nothing to me, at least in a greater sense. I am not Sansa pining after some golden knight."

The laugher died then, her face softening, distant.

"I suppose I do owe him, in a way," she admitted. "He answered something I asked…about the Mad King."

Ned felt his back stiffen, and a sorrow long dulled in his heart stab him anew.

"And how did he answer you?"

The corner of her mouth lifted. "Far more kindly than you would give him credit for."

Ned sighed. Jaime Lannister's definition of kindness was an odd sort of beast, but if his daughter gave him the credit, he could hardly call her a liar. Still, the whole notion of that discussion taking place, it made him uncomfortable.

"He should not have told you."

"Ser Jaime didn't offer to tell me. Will you blame him for my curiosity as well?"

His normally obedient daughter was in that mood again, not particularly angry, but incredibly defensive, and that was when her Northern stubbornness would rear its head. It was never about herself, though. She was always defending someone else. Catelyn had more experience with it. There had been several occasions, more often as she grew older, where he would hear the raised voices of his wife and daughter arguing over Jon.

He wondered how she would have handled all of this. Renly. Jaime. Robert. No doubt Myra would have been halfway back to Winterfell by now.

"No, I suppose I can't," Ned spoke after some time. "But, please, Myra, try to distance yourself from this. I don't want you any more involved than you already are."

She smiled softly, taking his arm as they returned to the path. "I don't believe I have much choice in the matter, Father. You can't protect me forever."

No, he could not.

* * *

**Myra**

She had never thought feasts could be dull affairs. The occasions were rare enough in Winterfell that she would become overjoyed at the prospect of one, helping her mother as much as she could to make certain it was as perfect as possible. Laughter would echo through the chambers of the castle well into the night, and there was a warmth to be found that no fire could match.

But here, in the South, the feasts were common. She had been to more in one week than a year in Winterfell, and for all the warmth of King's Landing's climate, there was something much cooler about their celebrations.

No one, she noticed, truly celebrated, unless they were fully drunk. They spoke of things behind one another's backs and made deals under the table. None seemed inclined to give in fully to the merriment of happy company. It was another part of the grand game they played.

Was sleeping for rest, or had they figured out how to use that as a piece as well?

Myra watched it all carefully, nibbling at whatever course had been laid before her (she had lost count). Renly was to her right, engaged in conversation with Ser Loras again. They had attempted to include her, but it was obvious to Myra that her presence was not particularly wanted. She recalled Littlefinger's words at the tournament, and Renly's reactions to Ser Loras' near-death experience, and had begun to wonder if she was the kind of company the Lord of Storm's End wanted at all.

That certainly made her situation more complicated.

Of course, there had yet to be anything official announced. Renly had not stepped within ten feet of her father all evening, so she still had time to change her mind regarding the whole affair, but she had few reasons to do so. An inattentive husband was far better than one inclined to follow her every move, either out of suspicion or jealousy. Renly would neither beat her nor would he throw her out in the cold, but he would not love her, and he would not really be hers.

For the first time in what felt like an age, her thoughts strayed to Domeric and a life that would never be.

Finding herself tired of Southern hospitality, she excused herself. Renly made an offer to walk her back, but she had brought Syrena that evening and left him to his conversation.

They walked slowly through the Red Keep. Myra was not particularly interested in going back to the Tower of the Hand, or anywhere really. She was restless. So many recent revelations had left her feeling…drained.

"Is everything alright, my lady?"

"I…no, I suppose not."

They stood near a balcony and Myra retreated to the edge, watching the moon cast an eerie light over King's Landing. Below in the city, she could hear the common folk still celebrating. Shouts and music and laughter, the sounds of home far more than what she heard behind these stone walls.

And beyond it all, the sea. She would never have to leave it with Renly, but how much did she truly love it? All this time, she had not bothered to go to the beach, to touch the waters of the thing she often stared at.

Perhaps King's Landing was revealing more about her as well.

Myra sighed, so tired of everything all of a sudden. Perhaps it was the wine speaking, but she missed home more than ever.

"Syrena," she started, picking at a loose rock. "I believe you spy on me for the Queen."

Beside her, the Dornish girl blanched. "My lady…I would never-"

She chuckled. "It's alright if you are. You can't exactly say no to her, especially the likes of Cersei. Besides, there's nothing much to tell. I'm not after a crown; I'm not even after Renly. I'm just here…playing along. And I'm afraid I'm quite rubbish at it."

And full of too much knowledge for her own good. She might have been better off in ignorance. She was not allowed to help her father either way. At least not knowing allowed her to sleep in peace.

Well, relative peace. It was still too warm at night for her comfort.

"I'm still grateful to you," she continued, realizing the handmaiden's discomfort. "You have helped me a great deal, and our conversations have been the highlight of my days. I would like to hope that you found my company at least tolerable. Otherwise, I should congratulate you on your acting skills."

She heard Syrena release a breath, and turned to see the girl much more composed.

"Your company has been more than I could have hoped for, my lady," she paused, biting her lip, the moment of truth. "I am sorry we must know each other in this way."

"I'm not," Myra said, straightening. "Keep doing your job. Maybe I'll throw in a story now and again for her to chew on. I suppose it's the least I can do."

Though they both laughed over it, Myra knew she would not. She was better than that. All she could hope to do was go about her days as she always had and maybe the Queen would lose interest.

But if Robert did not, neither would she.

She supposed that was where Renly came in.

"What will you do now, my lady?"

She thought to the Valyrian dagger in her father's desk, and the broken antler tucked away in her chest; she thought of Sansa and Arya running about the Tower of the Hand and Robb alone in Winterfell with a crying Rickon and broken Bran. She thought of the Lannisters and the Starks and the Baratheons and wondered at her place in all of it, if there was a chance to change anything. If there was even a point in trying.

It was as she was about to answer that a great bellow came down the hallway. Alarmed and equally curious, both women returned inside.

Stumbling down the hall was Robert Baratheon, and one lone member of the Kingsguard. It could not have been Ser Barristan or Ser Arys, who might have lent a hand, and certainly not Ser Jaime. The King was far too quiet for that, as if he hadn't just roared down the length of the palace.

The stench of wine was on him, even from so far off. Myra could not remember how much he had been drinking at the feast. In fact, she could not remember the King much at all, a testament to either how preoccupied her mind was or how somber he had grown in the evening.

"My lady, I do not trust this," Syrena whispered as he approached, looming larger than ever in the dark of the evening. He stopped before them, silent and wavering. She watched his bright blue eyes go in and out of focus. Behind him, Ser Mandon Moore stared resolutely forward.

"Your Grace," Myra started with an incline of her head. Syrena echoed her with a curtsey. When he did not answer, she added, "May I help you?"

He blinked and narrowed his eyes at her, and it occurred to Myra that he was only just seeing her now. Wherever he had been, it was not King's Landing.

"It's you," he whispered, voice soft and in awe. "Lyanna."

Nothing silenced a room quite like the realization that things were about to go horribly wrong. For a moment, she felt entirely alone, separated from the present, standing in some place that felt so heavy. She wanted to be anywhere else, far away.

Her smile was forced. "No, Your Grace. It's Myra. Ned's daughter."

He blinked again and started to murmur something under his breath. She heard her name and her father's. The King just seemed to be repeating what she said, attempting to wrap his drunken mind around the words, but it had done the trick for the time being.

A hand grabbed hers. Syrena said nothing, but her eyes moved down the empty corridor.

For once, Myra was eager to abandon her courtesy. No doubt Robert would forget her disappearance come morning.

They had barely stepped away when Robert came to.

"Stop!" he bellowed, shaking her very being, but they continued to walk, hoping to make it around the corner. "I am your King!"

That made her halt, not out of honor or common decency, but out of the realization that he would either come after them or make Ser Mandon do it for him. The dead-eyed man appeared to have no issue doing whatever the King pleased, and he certainly wasn't about to stand up for them. She had to wonder if a man could truly live without a soul.

"Syrena, leave," she whispered, grabbing her handmaiden's wrist and pulling her forward. "Find Renly or Ser Barristan and bring them here."

The Dornish girl looked truly frightened. "My lady…"

"Go!"

She wanted to ask for her father, but she did not want to put him through whatever this may cause. They were friends, and this might only end in drawn steel.

Myra put her chin up. Robert was drunker than usual, but he was still there. He would not harm her; he would not harm Lyanna either. Whatever was plaguing the King, she could talk him out of it. She had to.

"Your Grace," she spoke as she turned to him.

And there was that look again, the awe in his blue eyes, the emotion she had first spied in Winterfell. He was a man seeing the dead, only now he well and truly believed them to be alive.

"It can't be true," he whispered, approaching her. "You can't be here."

"I'm not her, Your Grace. I'm not-"

His hand reached out to her, and with a delicacy she did not think a man like him could possess, he moved a stray hair from her face, gently tucking it behind her ear. She was distinctly aware of how large his hand was, how it could crush her in a moment's notice if he so desired.

And the man she had dared call Ser would never raise a hand to help her if he did.

It was what kept her from raising her own hand to stop him, the thought of his anger returning. He was an emotional man to begin with, unpredictably swaying from one extreme to the next, but this deep in his drink, she did not know what would set the great stag off.

His hand moved to cup her cheek, thumb grazing the skin just under her eye. His palms were hot, sending a chill up and down her spine. She let out a shaky breath.

Robert chuckled. "You're shaking like a leaf. I thought you Northerners couldn't get cold here."

"We can…sometimes," she whispered, the words not fully agreeing with her. Her body wanted to flee, but was held in place by his hand, though it hardly gripped her. He could not hurt her, she thought, but she had seen a mark the Queen had attempted to cover once. A man who did that to one could do it to another.

He stepped closer, his face a swift movement away. His breath was rank, full of wine and dead meat, some still left in his beard. The crown nearly touched her hair. His stomach did touch hers, but he did not seem to notice.

"Every day, I see you when I wake up, when I sleep, when I fuck." His eyes drifted over her, soaking her in. There was no longing in them , not from what she could tell, only a deep sadness. Despite this, she was grateful her dress was far less revealing than its predecessors.

"You won't leave me, woman, and I'm not sure I want you to."

There was so much emotion playing on his face. Even Robert seemed to have difficulty choosing which to act on. He looked like some wild beast, lost and confused in a world he could not understand.

Myra dared to place her hand on his, lowering it from her face. "Your Grace, I am not Lyanna. Lyanna is gone."

She wondered how convincing her voice could be, shaky as it was.

Robert allowed his hand to fall to his side as he looked around the room, mulling over her words. Myra took the moment to step back, just out of his reach. She eyed Ser Mandon, standing some feet behind the King, but he was not even facing them.

"What he did to you…what they all did!" Robert roared. She did not feel far enough away. "And I couldn't stop it. Gods above, I couldn't save the woman I loved. Ned never looked at me the same, how could he? The bastard won't even tell me what he did to you! What did he do?!"

He shot toward her then, gripping both arms tightly before she could move away; he pushed her into the wall, not painfully, but enough to knock the breath from her lungs. Myra could not help but turn her face from him, closing her eyes as the panic began to grow in her. He was stronger than her, she could never escape his grasp no matter how hard she might have struggled, but even now her body rejected such a notion. It was frozen in fear, barely able to stand much less put up a fight.

Gods, she did not want to be here. She wanted to go home; she wanted her brothers. Where was Robb? Jon? Theon?

Her movement got his attention, and Robert loosened his grip.

"I'm sorry. Gods, I'm sorry." His hand was on her cheek again, thumb moving along the skin. It was wet. Was she crying? He was, and he leaned forward, his forehead on hers. The crown was so cold and so heavy, and she was trapped beneath it. "I should have saved you, Lyanna. I should have saved you and killed him. Every night I kill him!"

Robert punched the wall next to her. Myra yelped, and felt whatever strength had remained in her whither. With both arms free from his grip, they wrapped themselves around her shaking form as it attempted to back further into the rock that would never give way.

"Your Grace…I'm not her…please…please just let me leave."

Let her go home. Let her go back to Winterfell. To Robb. To Bran. To Rickon.

He stepped back, his look darkening. "You want to leave me?"

For a moment, everything went still again. As earlier, Myra saw the beginning of something terrible, the anger in his eyes unavoidable. Something worse was coming, and no words she tried now would ever soothe the beast she had unwittingly unleashed.

"Was I not good enough for you, Lyanna? Was he truly a better man than me?"

He. Rhaegar Targaryen. Oh gods, he thought Lyanna had left him for Rhaegar.

And he thought she was Lyanna.

Myra could not help herself. She tried to duck out from under him, take advantage of the small gap Robert had created, to get herself off the wall, but for his size and state, the King was deceptively fast. Both hands grabbed her arms again, pushing her back and slamming her against the wall, this time nowhere near as softly. Her head bounced off it and the world was momentarily askew.

"Do you want to run back to him? Is that what you want?"

"Wh-no…I…please…"

He slammed her again, fists squeezing her arms too tightly. Did he know how strong he was? How hard he hit her? Her head ached and her vision pulsed. She started to cry.

"You're hurting me…Robert, please!"

"Is that what you want?! To go to Rhaegar so he can fuck you how he pleases?! So he can make you his whore?!"

"I'm not Lyanna!" she cried, turning her head away. She couldn't face him. "I'm not her! Please, I'm not her!"

His hand slammed against the wall, dangerously close to her face. "Is that what you want?!"

"No! No, no, please!"

She wanted to go home. Why couldn't she just go home?

Where was Robb?

His hand wrapped about her chin, dragging her face back to him. Her eyes opened to his furious gaze, and her breath caught. She watched him inch closer, and grasped his wrist with her free hand, for what good it did.

"I went to war for you." His voice was low, a growl. "Rhaegar Targaryen can't have you."

"Rhaegar Targaryen can't have anyone anymore," a calm voice spoke.

Myra's eyes flicked to the left, meeting green. Jaime Lannister stood there, all in gold and white, but so did Ser Mandon, and he had yet to speak a word. So, Myra closed her eyes again, unable to look at anyone. Was this the noble Kingsguard her little brother had so desperately wanted to join?

But, despite her fears, Jaime continued. "Your war hammer saw to that, remember, Robert?"

"Watch your tongue, Kingslayer. I still own you."

"Of course, Your Grace, but you don't own her."

Myra dared to open her eyes again. Jaime was looking at her, not Robert. His gaze was encouraging, telling her to keep looking at him. She took a deep breath and tried to nod, slowly releasing Robert's wrist.

Somehow, Jaime's words had gotten through to the King. His grip loosened, hand leaving her face entirely. In what felt like an eternity, he backed away from her, a strange, sobering look on his face.

And when he had moved enough, Jaime gave a nod, almost imperceptible.

Myra dashed from her spot, ducking behind Jaime. He stepped in front of her, making sure no one followed. Robert, on his part, stayed where he stood, watching the spot she had vacated before looking to Jaime. They stared at one another for a long while, and then Robert swung, his fist colliding with his Kingsguard's jaw.

She screamed.

Jaime fell to the floor, armor clanging, much like he had the other night. Myra watched him shake his head, blonde hair covering his face. His movements were slow, but he still rose to his feet once more, standing tall and straight like any knight should, perhaps even more so.

"Is there anything else, Your Grace?"

Robert said nothing, though he looked sorely tempted to hit him again. Instead, he backed off and returned down the dark hallway.

Ser Mandon moved slightly. "Should have stayed out of it."

"And here I thought you were a mute," Jaime snarled. "Turns out, you're just a cunt."

The man said nothing in reply, only stared at his fellow a moment longer before following his King down the hall.

When they had gone, Myra's knees gave out and she collapsed on the floor, a shaking fit of sobs. She hugged herself tightly, drawing her legs in as she wrapped her arms around them. Her hands rubbed the fabric of her dress, but nothing she did could stop the shaking. Why was she so cold?

She should have been home, where it was actually cold, with Mother and Robb. Oh Robb, what would she tell him? He'd know, oh he'd know, one look, that was all it would take. Father too. Oh gods, what would her father do?

And the King. Would he forget? What if he remembered? What if he didn't care? His hands were still there, she could feel them holding her, hurting her even now. Would he do it again? Was that the man beneath the flirting and drunken revelry?

Oh gods, it was too much…too much.

Something moved out of the corner of her eye, and Myra flinched, ducking away from the movement and raising an arm in defense.

Standing over her, his white cloak in his hands, Jaime was frowning. His lip was bleeding and he looked angry, but not at her. It was almost comforting.

"I'm not going to hurt you."

His voice was soft and kind, so far from his usual self.

Slowly, she relaxed, lowering her arm. His gloved hand reached out to her, reminding her so much of that day in Winterfell, only it had been the King then. She hesitated, looking up into his green eyes, but the thought was banished as she saw the patience reflected in his face.

She took his hand, allowing him to pull her back up to her feet. He wrapped his cloak around her shoulders. It was so much heavier than she imagined, and so much warmer too. The cold began to leave her body as Myra allowed herself to be escorted away by Jaime, his hand on the small of her back lest she fell again.

Do not trust the Lannisters, her father had said, but right now a Lannister felt like her only friend in the world.

They walked through the silent halls for a long time, Myra never realizing that her steps were small and slow. But Jaime never complained. His hand stayed on her, softly guiding her in the right directions. She could distantly make out the sound of his armor. How sweet it sounded to her, how safe.

When they turned another corner, Myra recognized the entrance to the Tower of the Hand, and came to a halt. Her family was there. She could run to them; she could cry. They would hold her and tell her everything was alright.

And then they would ask questions. They would be angry, her father and Jory and everyone else.

What would they do?

"No, no, I can't," she mumbled, breathing hard. "My father…he can't see me…not…not now."

_Not like this._

She looked up at Jaime, pleading, expecting him to be angry that he had to put up with her longer, but his gaze was thoughtful, calm. He nodded once and escorted her away, to a balcony partially hidden by overgrown vines. The city had grown quiet and still, and it only served to make her feel more alone.

She wanted Robb.

Holding tighter to his cloak, Myra moved to the railing. Jaime followed, his hand hovering close to her arm. She realized in that moment that he believed she would jump. The notion frightened her, but she was grateful that he cared enough.

"You can hide here until you've…settled. No one should find you."

Was he going to leave?

At the thought of being truly alone again, terror seized Myra. Perhaps someone would find her; perhaps, somewhere, out there, Robert was still wandering around, lost in a world still filled with Targaryens and Lyanna. Who would help her then?

"Will you stay?" she blurted, looking to him again.

A strange look passed over his features.

"As you wish."

And so, he did.


	11. The Kingslayer

**Jaime**

He had always wanted to hit the king, some days more than others. And Robert, the fool that he was, had figured out that much. While whatever servant girls he'd ushered into his chambers had at it in his bed, giggling and shrieking as they were wont to, the drunken ruler of the Seven Kingdoms would storm right up to him, shirt torn and covered in wine.

"C'mon Kingslayer, have a go," he'd say, casting his arms wide open. "You stabbed the last king, what's this to you?"

Jaime thought himself impatient, yet somehow he would get through Robert's harassment without budging. He would stare resolutely forward until the king grew bored and wandered back to his women, none of them his wife, none of them Cersei. How he shamed his sister night and day with his whores and his maids and his highborn ladies who thought a bastard could get them a crown. And he, the only man who truly loved her, was forced to listen. Sometimes he wondered if Robert didn't know the truth.

Then again, his head  _was_ still attached to his body.

Though that might not be the case after tonight.

Standing in the corner of the balcony, Myra Stark trembled under his white cloak. She had not spoken a word since he agreed to stay; she only stared into the distance, though if Jaime were a betting man, he'd say she wasn't seeing anything. The King, maybe, or Ser Mandon, but nothing that was actually there.

He almost had not been able to help himself. All the insults to Cersei he had managed to take, but the sight of that frightened girl pinned against the wall by her king had awakened something in him, an anger and shame he'd never found an outlet for, harkening back to days of fire and blood. Had Ser Mandon not noticed him and given a look of warning, Robert would have gotten his wish: a fist to the face and an excuse to be rid of him once and for all.

Instead, Jaime got the opposite: a fist to  _his_  face and a sobbing girl as a reward for his diplomacy.

Jaime sighed. Cersei was going to kill him, if Ned Stark didn't first. After all, here he was alone with his traumatized, unwed daughter, sworn to keep the king's secrets and thus unable to defend himself if the girl decided to remain a mute about the whole thing.

Seven hells, he should have left well enough alone.

But even as he thought it, Jaime knew that he never could.

Damn his twisted honor. Where had it ever gotten him? Here. It got him here with a girl he did not particularly care for in a city he hated surrounded by fools who liked to dance around one another with knives at their backs.

Maybe there was one out there for him. Probably.

"Why did you help?" Her voice was so small, Jaime thought he was imaging it, but when he looked in her direction, those gray eyes were watching him. They always seemed to be. "You made a vow to the king, the same one Ser Mandon did."

"Would you have preferred I leave you with him?" he snapped, still angry at his thoughts.

Regret followed immediately as Myra shrank before his eyes, pulling his cloak tighter. She looked away from him, much like she had in the hallway. The girl was ashamed. She probably expected him to treat her like everyone else in King's Landing had, as a pawn with no thoughts or feelings of her own.

He could understand that well enough.

"That was unworthy of me. I'm sorry," he said, stepping closer. She did not back away from him, but did meet his eyes again. They were the roundest, saddest things he had ever seen, desperate to latch onto something, a source of comfort maybe. She was searching for something he did not possess.

"I am grateful for what you did, Ser Jaime, more than you can imagine," she admitted, readjusting his cloak. She looked so small in it. "It's just…you have vows."

He couldn't help himself. "Yes, which your father likes to remind me of. Ser Mandon is honorable in his book. Tell me, which of us do you prefer?"

She was looking at the ground again.

He was terrible at this.

Not that he had asked to be here. Neither of them had.

"Has this happened before?" she mumbled eventually.

Violet eyes flashed before him.

"Not with Robert, no. Most women are more accepting of his touches."

Now scared, gray eyes met him. "Do you…would he have…"

Her voice grew small and trailed off.

Realizing his mistake, Jaime shook his head. "No…that isn't his way. He's a violent, drunken lecher, but he would never go that far. Too used to women giving into his every whim to bother, I think."

Myra nodded slowly, accepting his words, probably desperate to believe that she was not almost raped by the king. But Jaime meant what he said. Robert was a great many stupid things, but a raper was not one of them.

Unlike his predecessor.

Sometimes, in the dead of night, when all of King's Landing appeared to be asleep, he would hear her screams. They used to make him jump. Now they were just…there.

She was watching him again. He could feel the moment those gray irises landed on him. It was like she knew the instant his mind travelled somewhere…uncomfortable.

"Do you always stare at people?" he asked, feeling more defensive than he wanted. The damn girl was getting under his skin with a look. It was pathetic.

Myra saw right through him. "Will you tell me?"

He sighed, leaning against the doorway, fighting against the notion of telling her more. Though, deep down, some part of him had to admit it was easy to speak of his past with her. Myra Stark was not quick to judge or to anger, and she had yet to use that cursed name of his.

Perhaps he was the desperate one.

"You know the story," he started, hand playing with the hilt of his sword. It wasn't the same one. He'd had that one melted down. Maybe it was a chamber pot somewhere now. It seemed fitting. "King Aerys had fallen into madness. He enjoyed fire and how it burned things, people in particular. And after every burning, his Queen would receive a visitor."

They had never been fond of one another, Aerys and Rhaella, that much he knew, but it had not always been unkind either, cool but civil. One of her ladies in waiting had spoken of it once. Rhaella never used to bear so many scars.

"We'd stand there as she screamed. What could we do? We were to protect the queen, but we were sworn to the man raping her."

That was the honor people thought so highly of, standing and doing nothing because you said a word or two in your youth. No wonder he'd tarnished his so early. He hated standing still.

"Is that why you killed him?"

On any other day, the young lady of Winterfell might have looked properly scandalized by what she had just spoken, but in the dead of night, alone with him, her expression only held somber curiosity. No one had ever asked the why, not truly, seriously. It never mattered to them. But it seemed to matter to her.

However, there were some stories even a sad, young woman could not coax out of him, truths best left forgotten.

"No, it wasn't."

Myra nodded, unsatisfied, but willing to leave it at that, much to his relief.

She began to remove his cloak then, black strands of hair clinging to the fabric, a clear contrast to the white. Her sleeve rolled back slightly at the movement, revealing the beginnings of a bruise near her wrist. The motion, he noted, made her wince.

His hand clutched the hilt a little tighter.

"You're going to need this," she mumbled, leaving things unsaid to hang heavy in the air. She held the cloak up. "May I?"

Jaime thought to say no, but instead found himself turning his back to her. Even through the armor, he could feel her small hands shake, fumbling slightly, far different from the first time someone did it. Ser Gerold Hightower, the White Bull, had fastened that pristine cloak to his shoulders, confident and slow, showing off for ceremony, yet the movements seemed to pale to the actions now. If he were honest, the last couple hours were the most honorable ones that cloak had ever taken part in, shielding an innocent girl from the world.

The thought unnerved him.

"My father is wrong about you." Her voice was a whisper. "You aren't just your vows or your honor, Jaime. You're better than them."

A long moment of silence passed. In the distance, a raven cawed.

Jaime turned to face the girl, who had since been done with his cloak, and thought to say something brash, but the look in her eyes left the words unsaid. The way she was staring at him, with that seriousness all the Northerners were known for. There was no accusation, no joking, only absolute belief in the words she had just spoken.

Now he felt like the small one.

Her eyes flicked to his mouth and back, silently asking permission. Jaime could not remember nodding, but in the next moment, her hand was at his chin, gently wiping off what blood there was with her sleeve. He could imagine other ladies gasping at the thought, but Myra's hands were at her steadiest now, soft and gentle.

"Can't walk around the keep like that," she murmured, lowering her arm. "People might say things."

"I don't care what people think," Jaime said, finally finding his voice.

She smiled softly, like a mother to her child. "I think you do."

* * *

**Ned**

The horizon was beginning to lighten, the first signs of dawn. Was that how long it had been?

When Sansa had returned alone with Septa Mordane, he had not worried; when Arya returned, late as she always was, because curfews had never meant a thing to her, he had questioned nothing. But as the hours grew long and the shadows of the evening longer, a deep, cold fear had started to bud in his chest. Myra was nothing but responsible, but all of King's Landing was the opposite.

Jory had insisted he remain in the tower, a form of precaution given the events of late, under close guard. Ned had protested, loudly, but gave in nearly as quickly. He could not deny the logic of his captain of the guard, but that was his daughter alone in the Red Keep, surrounded by both enemies and secrets. This was his mess she had stumbled into, and he should be the one to get her out of it.

Instead, he had been sitting at his desk for gods knew how long, staring a blank piece of parchment. Had he meant to write something on it?

He crumpled up the paper and tossed it aside, turning his gaze to the door.

Even the handmaiden had yet to return, and Sansa had insisted her sister had left with her. Could this have been some plot of the Queen's? The handmaiden was from her, after all.

No, he decided, that was not it. The Lannisters were bold, but arranging the disappearance of his daughter, that was another feat entirely. It was an action that beckoned war. Those little games they liked to play never fared well against steel.

Then where was Myra?

Ned feared the worst, as he always did. Catelyn would never forgive him; she had barely survived Bran. And Robb, he'd lead a manhunt the likes of which Westeros had never seen. Even Robert would come to fear the wrath of his son.

He stood then, unable to take the thoughts any longer. The sun would rise soon. Whomever was attacking his family would be hard pressed to try anything in the daylight. He would bring the whole retinue if it would ease Jory's worries, but no matter what, Ned Stark was no longer going to stand by while another member of his family was missing.

"With me," he spoke sharply to the four guards posted outside his door. They followed without word down the twisting staircase of the tower, until they were met by a couple climbing upward.

Disheveled and morose, Myra met him first. She did not approach him, but stopped a few steps down, watching the guards.

"Thank the gods." Ned went to meet her, but when his hands brushed against her arms, his daughter backed away. She immediately looked ashamed, her eyes cast down, but still made no move toward him. "What is it? What has happened?"

Myra said nothing, though her eyes briefly strayed down the staircase. It was only then that Ned took notice of the other man standing with them.

Jaime Lannister.

The man stood there, gallant in his shining Kingsguard armor while his daughter, so humiliated, could not meet his eyes.

He took a breath, fists curling, and turned to his men. "Take Myra back to her quarters. Stand guard until I return."

Life seemed to breathe into his daughter at that moment. She touched his arm gently, eyes pleading. "Father, don't…"

_Don't hurt him._

Ned nodded slowly. Still, her eyes were on him as she was led up the stairs by his men.

She knew.

Jaime did not resist when Ned shoved him against the wall, hands clutching the bottom of his neck where the armor could not protect him, only a bit of cloth that easily gave way to his anger. There were no words of protest falling from his lips. The Kingslayer merely watched and waited, though even his pride gave way to a little concern on his part.

"What did you do?" Ned hissed, pressing him harder against the surface. He could hear the metal scraping against stone. "Answer me."

Green eyes watched him, calculating. Suddenly Ned could understand why Robert hated being surrounded by them.

"I found her wandering the keep. She'd lost her way," Jaime finally said. "Rather embarrassing really, but it seems Stark girls have a knack for it."

"You expect me to believe that?"

"I don't expect you to believe a word I say."

On that much, they could agree. Why his daughter had spent as much time with the Lannister was something he would never understand, but it was clear to him now that he should have ended this much sooner. Lannisters only brought pain and misery to all they touched.

"Is that the tale you're going to spin for Robert when I bring you up on charges?"

"I don't think Myra would look too kindly on that."

Ned slammed Jaime against the wall again, his hand climbing higher on his neck, squeezing. Still, he did not fight him. "Don't speak her name."

"I did…nothing…to her," Jaime finally confessed through ragged breaths.

He was growing tired of this game. "Then what happened?"

His green eyes darkened. "I can't…tell you."

There was a voice in his head urging him on, to squeeze just a little tighter, but Ned pushed those thoughts away. Even in his anger, he knew killing the son of Tywin Lannister would only end in disaster. He may have hated the man, but he was not worth a war.

Besides, he believed him. He did not trust the man, but he did trust the words he spoke. Jaime never lied about or denied anything, to the point of bluntness. That was his way.

But why could he not speak his mind now?

Ned took a moment to look Jaime over, specifically the bruise forming on his jaw. It would have taken a large man to produce that, large and powerful enough to get away without their blood covering his armor and sword.

Someone who Jaime could not speak of.

He released Jaime.

The Kingsguard doubled over, coughing and clutching at his throat while Ned fell back against the wall, staring into the distance at nothing. His anger had been smothered by disbelief and despair. How can one react to such crippling betrayal?

He lifted his hands, the ones that would have taken a life just now. How they shook. Beyond them, Jaime was beginning to rise again, his eyes watering and angry.

"What happened?" Ned asked. "Please."

"She got lost," Jaime replied, finality in his tone. But then his gaze softened. "She will be fine. She is…intact."

His relief was short-lived.

"Because of you," he spoke, realizing why his daughter wished the man safe. "You have my thanks."

Jaime began to laugh, wincing while he still held his neck, all signs of his seriousness gone. "Remind me to avoid Northern gratitude."

Ned bowed his head, ashamed. "Forgive me, I-"

"Don't," Jaime said, raising a hand. "I'm in no mood for your false courtesy, Lord Stark. We both know I am the last person you want to be indebted to, even if it did mean protecting the girl."

He began to walk away then, shining armor disappearing into the darkness of the stairwell. "Get some sleep. Today should be interesting for all of us."

Ned watched the spot for some time, listening to the distant footfalls of the man who had killed a king and saved his daughter. How long he remained, he could not say, but by the time he returned to his quarters, the sun had risen in its entirety. His guards, weary from the long night, were dismissed, save for one to hunt down Jory and his party.

Myra was not there when he opened the door. She had retreated to her room, where he found her curled up on her bed, wrapped in sheets and still shivering. How he wanted to ask her what had happened, but fatherly instincts stayed his curiosity. His daughter was hurting. He only wished he knew how to help her.

He wished Catelyn were there.

Slowly, he crossed the room. Her fire was naught but ashes, so he grabbed a poker and began to stoke it. He doubted that would help her, but he was at a loss.

As the fire began to roar to life, he noticed a broken antler lying across the wood.

* * *

**Cersei**

She was cursed.

Hounded by Stark women at every angle, taking things she had toiled over without lifting a single finger. Her plans had been perfect, had been worked on for so long, and yet they were being undone by ghosts.

Her fingers wrapped around the goblet, noting how light it was when she lifted it. It had been drained, along with the bottle on the table. She stared at the well-polished pewter before throwing it.

It crashed against the door as Jaime walked in.

Her brother looked at the goblet spinning uselessly on the floor, then back at her, eyebrow raised. "This is a little early for drinking, even by our brother's standards."

"You!" she hissed, standing.

"Yes, me," he replied with that stupid sound to his voice, like it was all some joke to him. Everything was a joke. Jaime the Jokester, Lord of Laughs and Idiotic Decisions.

Cersei marched towards him, anger in every step. Jaime suspected nothing up until she slapped him across the cheek, right where a new bruise had formed. Good. She hoped it hurt, deeply, for all the trouble he had caused her.

"What were you thinking?" Cersei questioned as her brother shook off the hit. "It is bad enough that Robert is wrapped around that little wench's finger, but now she's convinced you to play her would be hero. Tell me, what sort of excuse have you given my husband to kill you?"

Jaime was still holding his jaw. "How do you even…the handmaiden. She's yours, isn't she?"

"Of course she is." Cersei turned back into the room, searching for another bottle.

The Dornish girl had entered in a hysterical state, waking Cersei from a dreamless slumber. She had begged forgiveness, saying that she had found her brother alone in the halls. Jaime had asked her what was wrong and she had told him everything, about Robert and Myra, and how fearsome the situation had become.

And her twin, in all his intelligence, had ordered her to find no one else and left on his own to handle things.

She had hit Syrena too, and the girl had disappeared out the door. That was something she would have to deal with later.

Finding more wine, Cersei poured herself another glass. "Do you honestly believe that I would let Lyanna Stark's ghost wander the keep unwatched? Clearly I was right not to."

Jaime was looking at her, clearly frustrated, but said nothing as he moved to the table and collapsed in a chair. He rested his elbows on his knees and continued to touch his mouth.

"So, what did you do to my husband? Threaten him? Hit him? Gods forbid you actually drew steel."

"Nothing," Jaime admitted with a sigh, shoulders hunching further. "I did nothing to him. I barely spoke to the man."

"And yet somehow you wound up gone half the night with Ned Stark's daughter," Cersei observed. "You always wanted to be some gallant knight from the songs. It's pathetic seeing you try to get there, given everything. Father would-"

The chair scraped across the floor as Jaime stood abruptly. He stalked forward, leaning over her, his eyes burning with anger.

"Dear sister, I have been punched by our King, strangled by his Hand, and slapped by you over this damn girl. Do not tell me what our father would do about it." He grabbed her goblet and drank what remained in one swift gulp, tossing it to lie with its twin. "What's done is done."

"And what has been done?" Cersei asked, unwilling to back down. "Did you even bother to think what Robert would do to you over this girl? To us?"

"What would you have had me do? Leave her with him? The North would cry for retribution, and Ned Stark would feel inclined to give it to them."

Cersei huffed. "Ned Stark would never betray Robert. His honor won't let him."

"You forget what happened to the last king who harmed his family."

"How can I? You killed him."

Jaime fell silent then. Reminding her brother of what made him the Kingslayer was a quick way to win an argument, or at the very least get him to give up.

Unfortunately, her twin did have a point. Robert's transgression against the Stark girl had complicated things, and if they had been left alone, it may have been to the point of no return. The Northerners did not take slights well, and she could not be certain they would not take half the kingdom with them in their search for vengeance. The Vale certainly had no love for them, and Myra Stark was Hoster Tully's precious granddaughter.

Not that Jaime helped the girl for the sake of keeping the realm together. Her brother acted first and thought on it later.

"We have to get ahead of this," Cersei said, walking away from him. "If Robert thinks he can execute you over this…"

"He won't," Jaime assured. "Myra Stark, as you so kindly pointed out, sees me as her hero. She won't let me die for her."

"And what if she does?"

"Has she yet?"

Cersei felt the urge to hit him again, and she almost did until Jaime took hold of both her wrists. He pinned her arms against her sides, and forced her to look at him.

"Nothing is going to happen to me, or to us. Robert will go back to fucking his whores and the Starks will go back to serving him. Nothing has changed."

Jaime always had been a terrible liar.


	12. The Conflict

**Barristan**

"You ever regret anything, Selmy?"

Ser Barristan looked up from the hole his boot had kicked into the dirt. Early that morning, the king had come to him and demanded that they go on a hunt. Never mind that the tournament's closing festivities were later that afternoon and that he had several dignitaries he had yet to greet over the course of the whole affair. When King Robert wanted to kill something, it was best not to get in his way.

Admittedly, he had thought the man was still drunk. Sobriety was not a state of being Robert liked to be in, but in the hours since they had departed the Red Keep, Barristan had come to realize his king was far more serious than usual. Lancel, he noted, was still carrying a full wineskin, despite multiple attempts to give some to Robert. The last time he had been threatened with disembowelment, so the poor squire had taken to sulking some yards behind them. Robert not taking to wine was something to worry about, strange as it sounded.

He had received no reports of anything unusual in the night, but Ser Mandon never had been one for talking. Barristan always thought it odd a man as respectable as Jon Arryn could have had such a glum character in his entourage.

"And I don't mean eating some piss poor meal that has you shitting your guts out," Robert continued, not noticing the knight's scrutiny. "Real regret. The kind that chews your insides up till you can't take the pain anymore."

He blinked.

This was…different.

Barristan was used to more jovial conversations, the ones that drunkenly mocked death and women and decorum, anything a proper king should not venture to discuss. Rare were the somber moments, and short-lived as well.

"Are you going to answer me or stare at your boots all morning?"

The thing was, Robert was not even looking at him. He was seated on a rock, picking at his spear like he had nothing better to do with it. The man hunted for many reasons, to get away from trouble, to get into trouble, never just for the sake of hunting. But this felt like more. He had only half-heartedly tracked what few prints there were in the Kingswood and was not agitated in the least that there had been no sighting of their quarry. Had he not served by his side for the better part of two decades, Barristan might have wondered if he'd gone hunting with the wrong man.

Even so, he still did.

"The tourney at Harrenhal, Your Grace," Barristan spoke eventually, giving in to the king's question. He shuffled closer to Robert, but not within eye view. "I regret not winning it."

The king huffed. "Not enough victories for you?"

"No, nothing like that. Perhaps if…" His voice trailed off as he thought of how to best phrase his answer. A smart man knew there were certain names to never mention to Robert; a wise man would not have bothered at all. "If someone else had been crowned the Queen of Love and Beauty, things might have been different."

He could still remember how Prince Rhaegar had passed by his wife in order to crown Lyanna Stark. The crowd had fallen so silent as she took the flowers in hand. Her brothers were furious, Elia Martell shamed, even King Aerys did not look favorably on his son's actions, and he, too, was a lecherous sort. But at that moment, the prince saw no one but her.

Robert was watching him. Barristan recalled his face as well. Younger and thinner, but still full of the famed fury of his house.

"And who was your queen?"

Ashara Dayne. With her violet eyes and dark hair, she still haunted his every step. He could pretend, just this once, that he regretted not winning for the sake of the realm, but all the dead across the kingdom for a stolen girl and a rebellion could not mean a thing next to the loss of her.

"Someone else, Your Grace," Barristan replied, remembering her smile one more time. "I suppose it no longer matters who."

The king nodded and stood, stretching to the sound of bones that cracked too loudly.

"You know who I'd have crowned. The whole damn kingdom knows."

Then he began to walk away. Robert was never a vague man. The faster he got to a point, the sooner things could be over with. It was what made him a great warrior in his youth, and a dreadful diplomat now.

He did not go far, stopped before a soldier pine, gazing up into its branches. Barristan wonder what he was searching for.

"I've done something terrible, and Others take me, I don't know what to do about it," Robert said, taking his spear in his hands. "The King of the Realm can't look his own friend in the eye, like the bloody coward he is."

Robert brought the spear across his thigh, easily snapping it in two.

"Damn her."

Barristan tilted his head, a pang of worry in his chest. "Your Grace?"

"Lancel!" The king shouted, ignoring the knight as he turned around. "Where are you, you miserable wench?"

His squire appeared from behind a tree, ready with wine.

"Bring me another spear!"

The young Lannister froze. "Y-Your Grace, you only brought the one."

There was that slight pause the old knight had grown familiar with, when Robert was about to make some ludicrous demand of the poor boy. Though, even he had to admit, any sympathy had run dry long ago. Lancel Lannister had proven himself grossly incompetent at anything he tried, though he supposed that did not mean he deserved the king's ire.

"And you didn't think your king would need another? How can I kill a fucking boar if I'm not armed properly?!" Robert shouted. "Go back and get me another before I shove these pieces up you and really tickle your fancy."

Lancel ran off so quickly, Barristan barely glanced his blonde locks before the boy disappeared completely into the wilds.

Robert watched after him, shaking his head. "Put a dress on that one, and he'd become the prettiest maid in the kingdoms."

Despite himself, Barristan chuckled.

"C'mon, Selmy, we've got boar to hunt."

"Without spears, Your Grace?"

"You've got a sword. So do I. I want to bloody the damn thing again before I die."

And so they left, though the worry remained firmly in the clutches of his chest. Barristan knew better than to pry, though. He had a feeling the source of the king's previous ramblings would come to light soon enough; he only wished he could be prepared for it, for once.

* * *

**Ned**

Jory was speaking to him, that much he knew. But he could not hear anything over the silence of the door just beyond them.

Myra had not spoken once, and so he'd left, though now he questioned if that had been a poor decision on his part. She had not emerged in the hours since. His other daughters came and went, half-heartedly asking after their elder sibling. Too much drink had been his excuse. Sansa had accepted it, gossiping about it with Septa Mordane as she left, but Arya had known better. She had watched him for half a moment longer than he was comfortable with before departing for her lessons.

She was becoming too smart for him.

Ned blinked. How long had his mind been wandering?

He glanced at Jory, whom, he noted, had finished speaking. His captain of the guard made no indication as to how long he had been waiting. The man would have waited all day, no doubt, and offered no word of complaint. At least where the North was concerned, he had placed his faith well.

"I apologize, Jory, I…" His voice trailed off, unsure of how to describe himself even now.

"It's alright, my Lord. It was a long night for all of us."

"I'm not entirely sure it's over," Ned replied, standing from the dining table. It was where he had decided to wait, but even a concerned farther was not allowed to let life pass by forever, especially the Hand. "What was it you spoke of? The Small Council?"

"Yes, my Lord. They requested an urgent meeting. Something about news from the East."

The Targaryens. As if he did not have enough on his plate, now he had to worry about Robert's obsession over a dying house.

Robert.

Never one to bother with the affairs of the actual running of the kingdom, he often chose to ignore such meetings. But for the Targaryens, the man just might show his face.

And what would he do?

Ned felt his fists clench. He was not the man he used to be, but there was still strength in his aging bones, certainly enough to beat a fat man within an inch of his life.

"I suppose Robert will be there."

Jory was silent for a long time. Ned could practically hear him weighing the options in his head.

"You don't have to go. Surely the Hand of the King has that much right."

Perhaps he did. Perhaps not. He wasn't entirely sure it mattered.

He glanced to the door again. Over the course of the morning, Ned had come to memorize every detail of it. All the lines in the reddened wood, the notches, the scrapes from abuse, the fading gold from the knob as it wore off from use. Ask him to choose from one hundred doors, he'd pick the right one every time.

He should never have left her, and now it felt too late to go back.

"No," he spoke after a while. "I should go. Gods forbid a war gets started because of my absence."

Jory nodded, his face growing somber. "Then I'll watch over her. If it's the last thing I do, she won't go through that again. I swear it."

Ned looked to his captain of the guard. He had served him for years, been there in times of war and peace, been at his wedding, and now he had followed him here, far from home and family. Jory Cassel was family himself in all but name. He, too, had seen Myra grow, had kept her company as her brothers sparred, and had even been the sword ready to defend her life.

Until last night.

It seemed there were many men reflecting on regret and failure that morning.

He put a hand on his friend's shoulder. "You were out the entire night looking for her. The fault does not lie with you, Jory."

"Neither does it with you, yet here we both are, watching a door," he replied, motioning toward it. "I stand by my word. I'll send someone when it opens. No need to worry on that front."

_Just on everything else._

The unspoken words hung heavy in the air. Both Northerners exchanged unsatisfied looks.

With a nod, Ned turned toward the main door. "Try to get some rest, Jory. You'll be no good to her if you collapse."

He thought that, perhaps, away from the damned door, his mind might find some reprieve from the hell it had been going through, but alone in the stairwell, facing the prospect of confronting the man he had called his friend, his thoughts only swirled closer and became more frenzied. Ned thought the walls might have been closing in on him, that the air was growing thicker.

His feet came to a stop at a familiar spot, the very place from earlier. He could swear there were marks on the wall where he had held Jaime at his mercy. Ned looked at them and wondered what he had been thinking. His daughter would have never allowed herself to be escorted by the man who wronged her, but in that moment, he needed someone to blame, anyone. The Kingslayer was a good a mark as any.

It was so easy to believe Jaime Lannister had done it, even when Myra had begged that he come to no harm; it was easy to ignore all the signs that had pointed to this for so long.

Had Robert been there instead of Jaime, would he have done the same?

No, of course not. He would have trusted the man who harmed his daughter.

The pain did not register, not at first. Ned stared at his fist as it pushed against the wall, but it did not occur to him that he had actually punched it, not until the knuckles began to pulse and dark red oozed from the skin.

He moved it, a mark of his own next to Jaime's now, and looked at the broken skin. Was this all he could do for her?

Robert's Kingsguard would stop him before he made a move. And even if they were not there, could he do it? His trust in him was shattered, but Robert was still his king. What more could he do but berate the man and threaten to leave? Lords had gone to war for their daughters for less slights, and here he stood, honor and love at war with one another.

Catelyn had worried about Myra most. Arya was strong-willed and wouldn't tolerate anything anyone said to her and Sansa was born to play amongst lords and ladies, not to mention Septa Mordane would stare down any would-be challenger. But Myra, his wife had said, was the kind to give a man a chance until it was far too late.

" _You must watch out for her, Ned. She won't have Robb to do it for her anymore."_

_He smiled at his wife's protectiveness. "Myra is a woman grown, Cat. She'll be able to handle it, far better than her sisters at any rate."_

_She sighed, stroking his cheek; she always did that when she had a lesson to teach him._

" _That is where you are wrong. Myra will watch out for them and you and everyone else in this world before she takes a moment to look after herself. She needs her father, now more than ever."_

And where had he been when his daughter needed him most?

He had failed them, his daughter and his wife, and even now he was continuing to do so.

Suddenly weary, Ned fell back against the wall, but even that was not enough. His legs were weak and shaking and they collapsed beneath him.

And there, uncomfortably seated on the steps to the Tower of the Hand, he wept.

* * *

The way the Small Council stared at him, Ned thought they might have all known. Varys more than likely did. The King's Spider knew a great many things and the look of sympathy on his face did not go unnoticed. Littlefinger, however, was smiling. For his sake, Ned hoped he was ignorant in the matter.

"My apologies," Ned started, lingering by the door. He was one wrong word away from fleeing, like some boy waiting for punishment. "There was a…family matter to tend to. I hope I have not kept you waiting long."

It could not have been that long, though. Robert had yet to arrive. Given his obsession with the Targaryens, Ned would have expected him to have beaten everyone else to their seats. Perhaps the gods did provide with small blessings.

To be honest, he was not entirely certain what he would do once he saw him.

Gods be good, how was he to get through the day?

"There is no need, my Lord," Varys replied, voice so sickly sweet Ned was positive the man knew now. "Family is paramount. Besides, an hour or two can hardly affect the outcome of matters across the sea."

"Yes, but a month or two might," Littlefinger added, some inside joke Ned did not care to know, though he did not doubt he'd find out shortly.

He glanced at the rest of the table, and his gaze froze on Renly. It took every ounce of strength in him to keep his body standing still, though his fists still curled. He had to remind himself, again, that the boy was not his brother, in both looks and demeanor. Surely he did not know what had transpired either, or he would have come to the tower himself. No, his serious mood had something to do with the meeting.

Grand Maester Pycelle he did not even bother with. The man looked on the verge of falling asleep.

"Where is the king?" Ned finally managed to ask. He had yet to move.

Renly shifted in his seat. "My brother decided it was a good day to hunt. He took Ser Barristan and his squire early this morning. Strange, since he usually likes to drag along unfortunate souls to witness the slaughter, namely me."

Running from responsibility. That was Robert's entire life. His drinking and his whores and excessive violence, it was all just running. Ned had known that well enough, though the reason itself had always eluded him.

Except for today, that was.

He took a breath.

"Has a message been sent for him?"

Pycelle nodded. "We did send a messenger, my Lord, but the council agreed that we would like to discuss the situation with you beforehand."

Of course they did. The one meeting the king would want to attend and they wanted him nowhere near it.

Ned nodded, slowly making his way to the table. He took the centermost seat, the seat of honor, in Robert's stead. An empty goblet sat on his right. He closed his eyes and pushed it away.

A stifled gasp to his left caught Ned's attention. Varys, or rather the entire Small Council, had taken notice of his bloodied right hand. Truthfully, he had completely forgotten about it, though he could not understand how. Moving the fingers was difficult and the skin still stung.

"It is nothing," he said quickly, hiding the object of focus under the table. "Just a difficult evening."

"I wonder what the other man looks like," Renly mused, a grin on his face. He wondered if the boy would look the same if he knew.

"Indeed," Littlefinger concurred. "To get the honorable Ned Stark to fight, they must have done something extraordinary. I certainly hope it wasn't anyone we know."

Ned did not deem his comments worthy of a reply, a punch of his own, perhaps, but he had promised Cat. There had to be at least one he would not break.

Varys, he noted, was also watching the Master of Coin.

"If you would allow me, my Lord," Pycelle started. "I may have something to alleviate the-"

"That's alright, Grand Maester," Ned interrupted. He just wanted to get it over with. This prolonging felt like purposeful torture. "If we're done discussing the matter, I believe we have something more important to attend to."

Varys nodded, "Quite right, Lord Stark. My little bird across the Narrow Sea has brought us…grim news."

"That little bird being Jorah Mormont, I take it?"

"The very same," the Spider replied, maintaining eye contact. Ned supposed he would not care what the man had done. Those in a position like the disgraced Mormont were the kind he lived for using. "He informs me that Daenerys Targaryen is with child."

Ned groaned. "And what of it?"

"My brother will want action taken." Renly leaned on the table, looking less a boy than ever as he juggled with the fate of a life. "They should have been killed long before they became a problem."

"And are they a problem?" Ned asked, glancing around at the other members. "Two Targaryens who were babes when they fled Westeros, who are still scarcely more than children now, have caused all of you enough grief to justify their murders? You'd never even pick them out of a crowded room."

Littlefinger sat up. "Regardless of what they have or have not done, it's what they plan to do that gives us pause."

"What, planning to invade the country with an army that fears the very thing they need to cross? If the South was always concerned with such unlikely threats, the Wall would still be at full strength today."

"If Wildlings could manage to stop fighting one another for longer than a day, the realm might actually tremble in fear. As it stands, they're nothing more than fur-covered pests with a penchant for the occasional raid, not unlike the Greyjoys in that regard."

Yes, pests that started a rebellion and managed to burn down the fleet in Lannisport, bringing a full-scale war back to the already scarred landscape of Westeros. But Ned did not mention it. It felt like fuel for their fire rather than his.

Varys nodded. "No matter what you might believe, Lord Stark, the rest of the council agrees that action must be taken against this threat. It would be wise to present this case to King Robert on a united front."

So that was why they wished to see him, not to discuss what they should tell Robert, but to make him agree to their decision before the king returned. With things as rocky as they were, Robert and his Hand disagreeing was not going to help.

It was a shame they were far too late in that regard.

"And if I say no?" Ned asked.

Littlefinger smiled. "Then we begin placing bets on who can yell louder."

"Please, Lord Stark, imagine the lives you will be saving," Pycelle said, shifting in his seat. "If the Dothraki do invade, thousands will be lost."

"Tens of thousands," Varys clarified.

Ned shook his head, unable to believe what he was hearing. "Do you plan on killing the entire Dothraki horde as well? Say you succeed in killing the Targaryen children, what is to stop her people from taking revenge? Right now, undisturbed, they hardly have a reason to move, but murder a Khaleesi, and they'll find a way across the sea."

That bought him a few moments of silence. It appeared at least some of the members, namely Renly, had not considered the consequences in their entirety. Good. Perhaps he had a chance then.

"Better a savage horde threatening the realm than a Targaryen led army," Littlefinger said, breaking the silence. "Khal Drogo cannot convince half the kingdoms to join his cause."

There were solemn nods all around.

"So it is no matter if thousands die, so long as a Targaryen isn't the direct cause of it." Ned stood, his seat creaking across the polished floor. "I'll have no part in this."

Pycelle attempted to stand with him. "You must understand that we-"

"No more!" Ned shouted as he strode toward the doors, anger rising. "It seems all King's Landing is good for is harming young girls. I've had enough."

He had said too much and he knew it, but it no longer mattered to him as he slammed the door behind him. All he wanted was to get back to his daughters and get out of this damned place. He doubted he could do so before Robert returned, but he could try. Cowardly though it seemed, it would save them all a great deal of trouble if they never saw one another again. The people could gossip all they wanted. Winterfell was safe from such frivolities.

"My Lord, if I may…"

Ned stopped and sighed. He was not aware Varys could move so quickly or quietly; he had not even heard the door open again.

He waited for the eunuch to approach him, the smell of lavender and some other foreign flower announcing his arrival. Dressed in his silk robes and dainty shoes, it was a wonder that this man help command some of the most disturbing acts. The murder of children, destruction of cities, no one would ever suspect a man of his nature.

Part of him had to wonder if this was truly the way he wished to dress, or if it, too, was part of his grand scheme.

"I'll not talk of the Targaryens again. I've had enough of it."

"As have I, Lord Stark. That discussion can wait for cooler heads to prevail," Varys agreed, looking down to his hands, which were neatly tucked away in his large sleeves. "There is another matter to discuss, one that greatly inconveniences your desire to leave the capital. Were it not of the utmost importance, I would allow you to carry on. I can understand why-"

Ned huffed. "I believe you know things, Lord Varys, but do not pretend to understand them."

Varys did not back down. "Few of us know the pain of the deepest of betrayals, Lord Stark. It cuts deeper than any sword and burns hotter than any fire; it was why I insisted the Small Council meet early. More important than the Targaryens, I wanted to make certain both the Hand and our King survived the day."

There had been a time when Ned thought he knew the inner workings of the Master of Whisperers, but much like everything else in King's Landing, the truth was still very much hidden from him.

"Then you have my gratitude," Ned admitted with a weary sigh.

"Try to hold on to that feeling. You may not care much for it upon hearing the news I have." Varys gestured away from the Throne Room, and Ned followed slowly until they had come to a narrow hallway, most likely a passage for servants, with no signs of life. "The situation regarding a certain dagger has become much more complicated, I'm afraid."

More bad news. That was the only news he seemed to receive as of late.

"What is it?"

The look of sympathy was back on Varys' face. "It seems that your wife has taken things into her own hands. She happened upon the same inn Lord Tyrion was staying at with a member of the Night's Watch, and called on her father's bannermen to arrest him."

_Oh Cat, what have you done?_

"Without more evidence implicating the man in your son's attempted murder, your wife's arrest of Tyrion Lannister will be seen as unprovoked. His father has done worse things for less, not to mention his brother."

Ned felt the worry return to his chest. "Does Ser Jaime know?"

"Not yet, and he won't from me. I prefer to keep my head, you see, but he will learn soon enough, and he'll want blood."

Again, Ned felt weak. He placed a hand on the wall to hold himself up as he began to realize how dire everything had become. They would be on the brink of war for this, a war no one was prepared to fight.

"If you are to rectify this, Lord Stark, you will need Robert," Varys said calmly, his words cutting through the thoughts that threatened to overwhelm him. "As much as you want to leave this place, it now may be your only hope."

* * *

**Myra**

She did not dream, yet what little sleep she had felt like an eternity. Her mind drifted through somewhere deep and dark, content in the abyss. If nothing could happen, then there was nothing to fear or to hurt.

But there was also nothing to love or find joy in, and with that realization, her eyes opened.

Even hidden under layers of blankets and sheets, the brightness of the day was not lost on her. It shined through the fabric, enveloping her in a soft and welcoming glow. For a moment, she pretended that the world outside was something different, perhaps Winterfell. Though even on the brightest of days, when white covered both the skies and the ground, her room would never be so radiant. After all, Northerners believed in four walls and doors to shut anything that dared to be open.

But it was a thought that cheered her nonetheless, for what little time it could.

Myra could not begin to imagine how long she stayed that way, lying under the covers, remembering the last time her home was fully covered in snow (she and Jon had managed to lose Robb, despite his Tully hair, and spent the better part of an hour searching for him while he giggled obnoxiously from a hole in the ground), but when she did finally manage to free herself from the bed, the room had grown much dimmer.

Her body ached, her head and arms in particular, though her back felt as though she had slept on a rock all night. The rest of her just felt…drained. How she had even gotten into a sitting position was something of a miracle in itself. Her hand moved up the arm of the dress, feeling the bruises that had been left by him.

_Is that what you want?! To go to Rhaegar so he can fuck you how he pleases?!_

"No! No! No!"

She was on her feet in an instant, all pain forgotten as she tried her best to tear the dress from her body. It was cursed, trapping her in that memory, and she wanted it gone.

Without her handmaiden, it was difficult work. Seams were ripped, fabric physically torn, but eventually the damn thing had been ripped from her body and thrown into the remains of the fire. Like kindling, it took to the flame quickly and soon the hearth was roaring once more with an uncontrollable blaze.

Myra stared into the fire, in naught but her shift, watching the fabric burn away with the remains of the antler.

_So he can make you his whore?!_

"No!"

She did not even notice as the flames escaped the hearth, as the dress had not landed completely inside.

The door slammed open.

"Lady Myra!" shouted a frenzied Jory as he entered her chambers. He stared at her state of undress for but a moment before rushing forward to stamp out the fire beside her. Right behind him was an equally wide-eyed Syrena, who grabbed a blanket from her bed and moved quickly to cover her.

"My lady, what are you doing?" the handmaiden asked as she led her from the scene.

Myra took a shaking breath, only just realizing she was sobbing. "I don't want to be his whore. Please…I don't…"

Syrena wrapped her arms around her shaking form, letting Myra cry into her shoulder. "That will not happen to you, my lady. I promise."

Myra was vaguely aware of Syrena saying something else to Jory. The door shut again and she felt herself being moved to the bed. A gentle hand smoothed out her hair, while the other rubbed small circles on her back, taking care to avoid her arms.

She was not Lyanna. She was not Lyanna. She would never be Lyanna.

Some time passed before she calmed again. Syrena never left her side, whispering words of comfort into her hair. It made her feel like a child again, running to her mother when she was hurt.

How she wished her mother had stayed.

"When did you come back?" Myra mumbled, unwilling to open her eyes just yet.

"A few hours ago, my lady. Your Ser Jory almost did not let me in, until I asked if he was going to dress you from now on," Syrena replied. She could feel her smirk. "He is quite protective of you."

"He hasn't been knighted, you know."

"So I have been told, but he is better than half the men who carry the title. I think I shall call him as I please."

That made her smile.

Myra looked up, opening her bleary eyes to a very welcome face. "You sent Ser Jaime to me, didn't you?"

"Of course I did, my lady," Syrena said, her dark eyes full of kindness. "I had hoped to send more, but he told me to keep quiet."

"It was probably best. The less people who know…"

There was a seriousness in the handmaiden's eyes now. She grasped Myra by the shoulders, ever so gently, and turned to face her. "My lady, did he harm you? More than…"

Her words drifted off as she took in the sight. Myra glanced down at her arms. They had turned nasty shades of purple above her elbows and on her wrists. She thought she could make out a distinct handprint on her skin.

_I went to war for you._

Myra took a deep breath, urging her nerves to calm. It did not work.

"I…I am fine. The king…he did not…"

She could not bring herself to say it.

"You said you did not want to be his whore," Syrena said, as softly as possible, but the words still felt like a slap across her face.

Myra looked to her hands. "He thought Lyanna had run away with Rhaegar…to be his lover…his…Robert did not like that."

Syrena mumbled something under her breath. It was a foreign language, a beautifully worded curse.

"Is that High Valyrian?"

The handmaiden smiled. "It is, my lady. You have a good ear."

"There is so much I don't know about you," she mused. Myra supposed she never would. Syrena, she had come to realize, had more secrets than most in the capital, but unlike the others, she did not flaunt the idea of being mysterious. "Where did you go, after Jaime?"

The woman bit her lip, thinking. "I…went to the queen. With all the ears in the keep, I wanted her to hear it first from me, so there was no mistaking what happened."

Myra nodded. Truthfully, she was thankful to the handmaiden for such quick thinking. It was so easy for a few simple words to be changed, leaving the queen to believe something else entirely had happened that evening. The last thing she needed was Cersei Lannister storming into the tower with fury and accusation.

She took a moment to look around the room, noting the burnt remains of her dress, the ashes across the floor, and her sad, small reflection in the mirror near her bed. How frail she looked. Had she found anything in King's Landing that did not maker her feel this way? She could not remember now. Any laughter or happiness she may have had, it was…clouded, obscure. Anything before that night felt so far away.

"I'd like to go to the sea, I think," Myra started, looking over at Syrena. "I can't stay in here any longer."

Her room. The Red Keep. King's Landing. They all applied equally.

The Dornish girl smiled, standing up. "Of course, my lady."

It took some time to ease Myra into a new dress. Attempting to avoid both her discomfort and another episode proved more troublesome than either party imagined, but eventually Myra found herself standing before the mirror, looking somewhat presentable at least. Syrena had found a gray dress that reflected the Northern style while being blessedly lightweight for the climate of the South. The handmaiden made certain that all the bruises were properly covered before allowing her to set one foot out the door.

The moment she did, Jory stood from his seat at the table. Myra became distinctly aware of the state he had seen her in earlier and felt the heat rising in her cheeks, but her father's captain of the guard made no indication that he remembered. He simply looked concerned and took a few steps forward before stopping himself.

"My lady," he said, bowing his head. "Forgive me…I should have been there."

She smiled softly. "You were with my father, as you should be, Jory."

"Nevertheless, it is my duty to ensure all members of House Stark are safe. I have failed you, my lady, and I…it won't happen again."

Myra thought she was done crying for the time being, but the emotion in Jory's voice nearly broke her. In a few, short steps, she was wrapped in his arms, clinging to him like he was the only thing keeping her standing, and he very well may have been.

Her younger self would not have dared this. There had been a time in Winterfell when her eyes had only been for him. She had boldly declared to Wylla Manderly during a feast (with more than a little influence from ale snuck to her by Theon) that she would marry him one day. Her friend had laughed at her antics, insisting that what she spoke was nonsense. She'd never be able to marry a hedge knight, much less a man who never even had a title.

And so, she grew a little more that night, and discarded her silly notions of love and marriage. How appropriate it had been, the very next week her father announced her engagement to Domeric Bolton.

She could not help but smile into the leather of his armor. What strange places the mind traveled to when it wished.

Strange and beautifully happy.

Slowly, Myra relinquished her grasp on Jory, and returned to a more appropriate distance for a lady and her guard.

Syrena smiled. "My lady wishes to go to the sea. I told her it would be a splendid idea."

Jory looked between the two of them. "I just sent word for your lord father. He wished to know when you were up."

"He can meet you there," Syrena insisted. "I will wait for him here, and in the meantime, clean up the chambers. There is no need for him to know what happened."

Myra felt her shoulders sag in relief. No doubt her father was suffering through enough guilt as it was. She wondered what she would even say when she did see him. The only words she had spoken the night before were for him not to harm Ser Jaime.

Oh gods, had he?

The words were thick and stuck to her tongue. She did not want to ask Jory, not if he did not know. There was no need to implicate more people in that part of her little drama. It was difficult enough knowing the few people who knew did.

She allowed herself to be led from the room by Jory. They walked beside one another in comfortable silence, leaving the tower and traveling through the rest of the Red Keep with relatively little contact. What few nobles they did pass were met with lowered eyes and the most proper of greetings. Myra did not care what they thought, only that they moved on quickly and were done with the whole encounter.

After some time, Myra began to notice things about the captain of the guard. He never strayed far from her and his sword hand, while from a distance it appeared relaxed, was at the ready. His fingers flexed every now and again, and always moved close to the hilt, as opposed to his other hand, which swung freely.

He was ready for a fight.

"Are you my personal guard now, Jory?" Myra asked, attempting some form of humor, though she found her voice hardly reflected it.

Jory's frown only deepened. "I promised your father I would take care of you, my lady. And I plan on doing so until he tells me otherwise."

A small smile graced her features. She was glad of it, and secretly hoped her father would allow him to stay by her side, at least for the time being. It made her more at ease in the halls.

It was a strange feeling, walking now. She was strong enough to stand on her own, to move and breathe and talk, but at the same time, she felt so weak. A good breeze could kick up in the hall and Myra felt she would fall over, never to get up. Whatever was holding her together, be it sheer willpower or the simply the desire to see the Narrow Sea, it was only doing so just barely, and her mind might not know it had fallen apart until it was far too late.

Like back in her room.

One instant she was sore and tired, but alright. And in the next, it was night and Robert was there, a behemoth of a man threatening to crush her, body and spirit. It had felt so real, so close.

She would have to leave this place, she knew, as if her father would ask her to do anything but. Myra only wondered what this meant for her sisters. They would not want to leave, she knew them well enough. Sansa had her engagement and Arya was finally getting the sword practice she couldn't at home. Why should their dreams be crushed because theirs had been?

But this was King's Landing, she remembered, and danger was around every corner.

Myra just did not expect it to be this very one.

As they turned to head to one final staircase, Myra and Jory were met by a party returning to the Red Keep. Ser Barristan and Lancel Lannister brought up the rear, following none other than Robert Baratheon himself.

The young Stark froze, a strangled sort of noise escaping her throat. She felt the blood drain from her face and all her musings scattered to the wind.

Jory, to his credit, did not pause. He stood in front of her, a shield, and grasped the hilt of his sword, ready to draw at a moment's notice.

Ser Barristan's hand was on his as well, while Lancel backed up some feet, grasping the wineskin tightly as if it could save him.

Robert had yet to move.

"You would dare draw on your king?" Ser Barristan spoke, stepping forward. He, too, would have placed himself in front of his charge had Robert not put his hand out and stopped him.

Jory did not flinch. "Aye, and anyone else who thinks to threaten my lady."

The air suddenly grew thick.

Ser Barristan looked confused for a moment, but then she saw something dawn on his face. He looked to Robert, then back to them, and looked briefly ashamed before resuming the façade of the Commander of the Kingsguard.

Robert blinked, suddenly returning to the moment. "Does Ned know?"

"Course he does."

The silence stretched for an eternity.

Then the king took a step forward.

Steel was drawn, one after another. Someone shouted. Myra blinked and in an instant had flung herself in front of Jory. She watched the tip of Ser Barristan's blade hover mere inches from her face as she desperately pushed her father's captain back, her hand reaching for his sword, attempting to lower it.

King Robert, having recovered from being pushed to the side by his kingsguard himself, stepped between the two groups, assuming his commanding presence.

"ENOUGH!" he shouted.

Ser Barristan froze in an instant, though Jory did not appear nearly as affected. Myra kept her hand tightly around his wrist, urging him to stay still.

"To my solar, all of you!"

Myra felt faint. "Y-Your Grace, if I-"

"That is an order!"

The world started to spin. Surely this was what happened earlier, a memory she was trapped in. She could not be on the verge of being stuck with him again. This could not happen. Jory said it would not happen.

A strong arm wrapped tightly around her.

Myra looked up and saw the determination in her guard's eyes. It gave her a sort of courage, as small as it was, to gather herself up and follow the king and his entourage.

After all, a king did as he wanted, and who was she to disobey?


	13. The King

**Jaime**

No one had said a word when he walked out of his chambers later that day, despite sporting bruises on both his cheek and neck. The other members of the Kingsguard knew better than to test his temper. Ser Mandon was staring, as he always did, but this time there was real weight behind his dead gaze. Jaime met his eyes, a silent challenge for him to try anything, but the man simply walked away.

White Sword Tower was unusually cramped that day. Four of the seven members of the Kingsguard were there, himself included. Sers Mandon, Arys, and Preston were all inside, leaving Ser Meryn with Cersei and her younger children and Ser Boros with Joffrey as he practiced with a crossbow on the tourney fields while they remained. Ser Barristan, he was told, had taken off with the king early that morning.

There was a conversation he was glad to not be part of.

Unfortunately, it was Jaime's turn to watch the royal chambers. Since Ser Mandon had watched the king overnight and the other two guarded his family, that left him next in line. Ser Mandon was not about to say anything of his whereabouts last night so for all the others knew, Jaime had gotten a good night's rest after the helmet debacle.

What a night it had been, making him forget about that embarrassment.

With a sigh, Jaime departed the tower, ignoring his meal entirely. There were too many things on his mind making his stomach turn. He wished Tyrion would return already from his damned excursion to the Wall. His little brother was the only one he trusted to help him sort these things out.

And what would he do? After recovering from a fit of laughter himself over his helmet woes, Tyrion would probably make a joke about the Stark girl and how close he was to her. Then a joke about Cersei and one about Robert. Most people would brush off what he said as insults and the inability to take anything seriously, but Jaime knew better. Tyrion's jests were an excellent way of evaluating a situation. It was how his brother kept things from getting too out of hand.

It was when the joking stopped that the concern really began.

No, Jaime thought, perhaps he would not joke about this at all.

He stood in front of Robert's chambers for the better part of an hour, waiting to relieve Ser Barristan when he heard footsteps down the hall. Briefly, Jaime wondered if Robert would recall the previous night and his role in it. He must have remembered some part if he decided this morning was good for a hunt. After all, when things became remotely uncomfortable for the king, the Kingswood was his sanctuary. Assaulting the daughter of the Hand probably qualified.

Jaime was not terribly worried about himself, unlike Cersei. After a night of thinking it all over, which had proven more tortuous than the act itself, he felt confident that he was not in the wrong. He had neither touched Robert nor demanded he leave the girl alone. Heavily implied, yes, but the decision was the king's to make. Even so, Robert would not dare anger his father. The fear of Tywin Lannister was what held the realm together.

Still, when Robert rounded the corner, cheeks red and huffing, a part of Jaime thought he might have been wrong. He thought the king was about to plow him over; he showed no signs of stopping until he halted barely short of his armored form. Jaime watched his eyes look him over, particularly his bruises. He could almost see the wheels turning in the king's head, which was a rare enough sight.

"You. In." Robert finally barked, marching into his quarters. "Selmy and the wench stay out!"

Jaime might have laughed at how his cousin knew to stand aside, had the movement not revealed two other followers.

One was a man he had spoken to just the other day, one of Ned Stark's soldiers. His hand was at the ready on the hilt of his sword. By the way Ser Barristan was watching him, something had already been attempted.

Behind him was none other than Myra Stark.

Seven hells.

The girl was pale as a sheet, much like when he had found her earlier. He had hoped she would not bother leaving the Tower of the Hand for some time, or at least longer than a day. The Starks, it seemed, were bound and determined to get themselves in unending trouble.

Her eyes met his briefly before closing them against tears. She followed her guard inside, keeping her hand on his elbow.

That small touch may have been the only thing keeping him from cutting the king down.

Ser Barristan appeared at Jaime's side, eyes never leaving the man. "Watch him."

He thought about being snarky, but could not find the words. With a nod, Jaime entered the room and shut the door behind him.

Robert was pacing back and forth behind his desk, mumbling something under his breath. Stark's man…Jory, that was it, was watching his every move, having strategically placed himself between the king and Myra. The girl had taken to keeping her eyes closed, hands folded in front of her.

The king did have a more official space, somewhere, but when not with the Small Council, Robert preferred to do things from the comfort of his chambers. An excellent decision by the ruler of the realm, bringing a girl he traumatized here, with his bed right behind her.

He supposed they ought to be grateful. There wasn't a servant girl in it this time, naked or otherwise.

Slowly, Jaime walked toward the Northerners until he was next to Jory and, in a way, hiding Myra as well. He could hear her breathing behind him, deep and slow. She was trying to calm herself, but he doubted it was working.

That feeling from the night was returning, the anger and something else. He almost wanted to call it…protectiveness. It had been a long time since he had found anything worth defending. Neither of the kings had been worthy of it, Cersei did not believe she needed it, and her children…well, he was never around them long enough to know. He had wanted to protect Queen Rhaella, Princess Elia, even her children, but they were all long dead. Maybe the Stark girl was some sort of replacement.

Or perhaps he was out to prevent a war. How gallant of him.

"You going to stop me?" Jory mumbled, though Jaime doubted Robert would have heard him if he shouted.

He eyed the hand that grasped his sword. It was pulling on it ever so slightly, revealing the steel beneath. If Robert so much as breathed funny, the man would lunge.

Honestly, he was surprised Ser Barristan hadn't taken it from him.

"I can't say it's not tempting to let you go," Jaime admitted, resuming his watch of the king's pacing. "It is my job, however, and the man  _is_  family."

And unfortunate truth for everyone involved, really.

"Better to let it go," Jaime continued, glancing back at Myra. Had she grown smaller? "You wouldn't want to leave her alone, would you?"

Jory looked at him a moment before he heard the distinct clack of a sword fully sheathed. Smart decision. All the man's loyalty would have counted for nothing against him, and Jaime had to admit, murdering Jory in front of Myra was not something he wanted.

"You saying you won't help her?' Jory asked, eying his bruises, as if he didn't already know what he had done.

Jaime sighed, feeling the anger pull at him again. "There is only so much a man can do."

"A man or a Lannister?"

Actually, running him through did not sound so bad an idea now.

Sometime during the exchange, Robert had managed to calm himself, or at least stop pacing. He pulled out the chair and sat beside his desk, instinctively reaching for his goblet before thinking better of it.

Jaime thought back to the hall, and the full wineskin his cousin Lancel carried. Robert was sober, or as much as he could be after a night of drinking. The man actually felt guilty.

The day was filled with many firsts.

Robert finally looked at them, his eyes moving back and forth between him and Jory. "Let me see her."

"I don't think that would be wise, Your Grace," Jaime found himself saying. He had not meant to speak at all, but he supposed it was better than anything the Northerner had to say.

He was playing the diplomat again. Tyrion would be impressed.

The king, however, was not. "Grow a maester's chain while I was gone, did you? It'll be a cold day in the seven hells before I take counsel from you."

_Must have been awfully chilly last night then._

"Now let me see her," Robert continued. "I trust that the girl can speak for herself."

On that, Jaime was not entirely certain. Jory must not have felt the same either. He just glared at the king and refused to budge.

Robert narrowed his eyes. "First you draw steel on me and now you refuse an order. Are you begging for the King's Justice?"

Jory never flinched. No once could ever accuse a Northerner of not being loyal, or stubborn for that matter.

The king's anger might have gotten the better of all of them had a pair of small hands not emerged from behind them. Though she hardly touched either man, both Jaime and Jory stepped aside, allowing Myra to move into view. Still shaking, he watched the Stark take one last, deep breath and open her eyes.

It was as if she had become a different person. The shaking stopped, her eyes, dark and serious, were able to hold Robert's gaze, and even some color had returned to her face. She was a far cry from the girl who had been hiding behind them moments before.

She may just survive King's Landing after all.

"Your Grace," Myra said, voice calm and even.

Robert said nothing.

Jaime looked to the king, and found himself surprised. All the strength Myra had gathered seemed to have been taken from the Baratheon. Now Robert's eyes turned downward, his anger all but diminished, the shame he clearly felt visible for all to see. He had never seen the king this way. Not even Cersei could do this to him. No, around her he would only act worse, as though it were a challenge to his authority.

But here, he had none. Robert Baratheon, the First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm was thoroughly cowed beneath the gaze of Myra Stark.

Jaime had only ever seen two people effectively shut the king up: one was his father, and the other was hers. Perhaps they had all been wrong about the quiet girl from the North.

Now it was Robert who took a nervous breath. "I have shamed you…and I have shamed myself. A man who doesn't recognize that isn't fit to wear the crown, not that I am anyway."

Robert chuckled to himself. Jaime wondered if the man was aware of his presence anymore. This wasn't something he'd ever admit in front of him.

He sobered up again. "I won't ask for your forgiveness. I'm not worthy. I can only hope one day we'll get past all this and that things can go back to…no, I s'pose they can't even do that. I've thoroughly fucked it all up, haven't I?"

Myra bowed her head, looking at her hands, but she lifted it again before speaking. "That is one way of putting it, Your Grace."

Robert nodded, frowning, before turning his gaze to Jaime. "I remember punching you, but what happened to your neck?"

"Courtesy of Lord Stark, Your Grace," Jaime replied. As he expected, Myra turned to face him, that concern back in her eyes. She blamed herself, he knew, but it was done now. He wanted to leave it to rest. "He cares for his daughter very much."

He wondered if Robert realized he had taken two hits for him, and for the good of the realm, he supposed. Perhaps that was what he was good for now, letting lords take out their anger on him rather than each other with their armies.

How proud his father would be.

"Suppose I'll never hear the end of it from your sister now," Robert said, shrugging off his comments. "Me owing the Kingslayer for-"

"Jaime!"

Her voice was so sudden and loud, Jaime nearly jumped. Jory had put his hand back on the hilt of his sword while Robert's eyes had grown wide.

Myra was shaking again, only this time out of anger.

"His name is Jaime," she spoke through gritted teeth. "If you're going to thank him, perhaps you should not insult him in the same breath."

It took a moment for Jaime to realize his mouth was open, like some gaping fool. He promptly shut it, though it seemed both Jory and Robert had yet to realize they looked the same.

Myra had calmed, appearing to realize what she had done. She looked sheepishly to her feet, but made no move to take back the words, words she had used to defend him with.

No one had ever questioned the title, not his father, not his sister, not even Tyrion, who instead insisted he use it as some sort of shield, a joke to claim as his own so no one else could.

Oh, he had tried. By the looks he got from others, he tried very well, but inside he still felt every syllable in his chest. There was no way to stop it. It was simply another pain to become used to, much like a great many things in his life.

But then Myra Stark came along. The girl he pegged as weak and uninteresting had just berated the king into silence over it.

This was growing far more complicated than he bargained for.

Robert blinked, coming back to himself. He did not say a word to her, perhaps afraid of antagonizing the girl any further, and instead turned to him.

"You have my thanks…Jaime."

He could only nod. His voice had run off somewhere.

Next he supposed King Aerys would rise from the dead, a dragon reborn. It'd certainly be the most fitting conclusion to the day.

Starting to chafe under the scrutiny, Robert stood. "You should go now. I believe I've caused you enough grief for one day, Lady Myra."

"Thank you, Your Grace."

Despite the power she had just commanded, it was more than obvious Myra was still desperate to leave the room. She crossed the breadth of it in a few strides, ducking out the door with Jory without acknowledgment of either curious party that waited outside.

"You too," Robert continued, staring at him. "I've seen enough of your face for one day. Go stand and look pretty somewhere else."

Jaime nodded. Being told not to spend time with the king? He had no problem with that. Perhaps he could finally get some sleep.

"And Kingslayer," the king said as he approached the door. "Breathe a word of any of this and I'll have your head, your father be damned."

Ah, there was the Robert he remembered.

"Of course, Your Grace," Jaime replied with a dutiful nod before departing the room. He, too, did not bother to give a second glance to either Ser Barristan or Lancel as they both entered the room to resume their kingsitting duties. He was tired, angry, and more than a little fed up with everything at the moment; he just wanted to be alone.

As he rounded the corner, however, Jaime found that he would have to wait a little longer for that particular wish to come true.

There, sitting against the wall, her dark hair clinging to the stone as if she had slid down the thing, was Myra. She was alone, basking in the sunlight pouring through the window across from her, waiting. For him, he guessed. Surely she wasn't waiting for Robert to stop by again, and Cersei's half-hearted attempt to throw Lancel her way had certainly backfired. If his cousin couldn't appeal to a girl who more or less tried to like everyone, he was more than a little hopeless in life.

"I sent Jory ahead," Myra spoke, having noticed his presence. However, she continued to face the window. "I had wanted to speak to you alone. I don't believe I actually thanked you properly and…really, I don't remember what else I was going to say."

She turned to face him then, a sad, little smile on her pale face. "I must seem pathetic to you."

The girl who silenced the king with a look, that was hardly pathetic. That was something nobles dreamed of doing all their lives. But he did not say that.

"No," was what he said. He did not miss the hopeful glint it brought to her eyes. "No, I don't think so."

Jaime offered his hand, and she took it without hesitation. He watched her play with the loose strands of hair, attempting to fix the mess she had made. Her hands still shook slightly.

"You should go away inside," he said, suddenly reminded of a younger man who would not have done much better in her position. "When you're faced with something you cannot stand, just don't be there. Find something inside to hold onto until it's over."

Myra tilted her head. "That sounds like giving up."

"Sometimes that is all we can do."

* * *

**Ned**

"She wants to go home, and I can't say I blame her," Jory confessed.

They stood near an outer door to the keep, one that led to a secluded beach that the lords and ladies liked to frequent when the air had grown too warm for even their Southern tastes. As it was, the day had been rather cool, so the spot had been abandoned, save for a small boy claiming his mother was a chambermaid.

With his big, round eyes and tattered clothes, Myra had taken to him in an instant and sat with him on a rock. He was teaching her to fish.

Though Ned had briefly wondered if the boy was one of Varys' famous little birds, he was grateful nonetheless for his daughter's distraction. Even from where he stood, he could see the warm smile on her face as she watched the boy blather on with great interest.

The common folk back home had always loved her. She knew each of their names, inquired after their families, struck up genuine conversations that made a person feel as though they truly mattered. While other lords and ladies were greeted with respect, as was expected, Myra made faces light up and smiles form. She did not make people do anything. They simply wanted to because of it was her. It was a kind of power King's Landing would never understand.

Ned nodded, understanding entirely. "Neither can I, but I fear things have grown too complicated for even that small mercy."

His old friend gave him a confused look. Ned motioned for them to walk, taking their conversation away from the door, nearer the waters, where the rushing waves began to drown out all other sound. Both Myra and the boy turned to face them momentarily before returning to their task.

"Catelyn has Tyrion Lannister," Ned admitted when they had gone far enough. "Lord Tywin will know in a matter of days, if he doesn't already. He'll be on the warpath."

"The roads won't be safe," Jory concluded, looking to the horizon, as if he would find answers there. "Surely, you can't ask her to stay here, my lord."

Ned sighed. He knew that if he did ask, Myra would obey. It would shatter her heart, but she would respect his decision nonetheless. He actually wished that she wouldn't, for once; he wished she would yell at him for it, get angry that he would ask her to do such a thing, but that was not her way, not when it came to herself.

Cat had been right about her after all.

"Aside from Winterfell, King's Landing is the safest place for us to be right now, as twisted as that sounds," Ned replied. He, too, found himself looking to where the sky met the water. If only all his problems could be solved by staring into the distance. "We are in the wrong here, Jory. If I cannot get Robert to help us…"

He did not wish to finish the thought. It was a dark place that he had been to far too many times in his life.

"The king may not be enough," Jory spoke after some time, letting the dark thoughts linger. "There was already a conspiracy here long before we arrived, my lord. This may just set things into motion we aren't aware of."

Now it was Ned's turn to look confused. "What are you suggesting, Jory?"

Jory nodded toward the sea. "There are other ways to the North, my lord. And a ship passing by Dragonstone is no unusual sight."

The pieces began to fall into place, revealing a dangerous ploy. "It would be, given Stannis has closed the island off. No one has heard from him in weeks."

"Surely he can't ignore an order from the Hand of the King."

And why not? He had already ignored have a dozen missives from Ned, begging he return to his Small Council seat. His departure after Jon Arryn died meant only one thing: Stannis knew the answers he searched for, and for a reason he could not fathom, the man refused to give them up.

"A plea, more like," Ned replied, turning away from the sea. "I'll not order him to come where he knows there's danger."

"Not even to help his brother?"

Ned sighed. He knew there was no love lost between the older Baratheons. Stannis was a cold-hearted man to begin with, though not without his virtues. Despite his attitude, he had ever served Robert to the best of his ability, and what had his brother done to repay his kindness? Gifted Storm's End to Renly and left him to rot on Dragonstone. Robert may as well have stabbed Stannis. It would have been less painful.

Still, Stannis Baratheon was a dutiful man. Perhaps all he needed was an extra push.

It wasn't like he had much choice in the matter.

He looked back to his daughter. A small fish they had caught had gotten loose and the little boy had begun to chase it down the beach as it flopped across the sand. Myra giggled at the antics. The sound was a sweet one.

The Others take him. It had not even been a day, and now he was asking her to do the impossible, far from him and anyone else in her family. When all this was over, she may never smile again.

"She'll have to agree," Ned murmured. "I won't lie to her. Not about this."

"She will, my lord."

Yes, she would. Like Stannis Baratheon, she was dutiful to the end, no matter what life threw at them.

Somehow knowing his thoughts, Myra turned in their direction, watching the two men through her windswept hair. She stood then, leaving the boy to his antics as she crossed the beach to meet them; she rubbed her arms as if chilled by the wind, but they all knew that was not the case. Perhaps the whole keep knew now.

It made the decision that much easier.

"Find us a ship, Jory," Ned ordered, dismissing his captain.

Jory nodded, immediately heading for the doorway.

The boy, Ned noted, had disappeared.

Myra watched him leave before closing the remaining distance between them. Despite the…detour she and Jory had taken earlier in the day, they had still arrived on the beach well before he had. She was so focused on her efforts with the boy, Ned had not wanted to bother her.

There were dark circles under her eyes and a pain deeper in her irises, but the life had returned to them, and it was more than he could have asked for.

Before she could speak, he wrapped his arms around her, kissing her forehead. Though she returned the hug, Myra neither cried nor clung to him. That time had passed. This, she knew, was for him. The last time they had seen one another, she had backed away, and though he knew that it had nothing to do with him, Ned needed the reassurance.

"Will you speak with him?" Myra asked, looking up at him.

Ned could not tell what emotion was running through his daughter's eyes, but it left a knot in his chest nonetheless. "I suppose I must. The Hand cannot ignore his king forever."

Now the concern in her eyes, that he knew. "If I told you I forgive him, will it keep you from doing something foolish?"

"And do you?"

Myra put her head on his shoulder, taking her time as she watched the waves. "No, not now, but perhaps some day, when I've been far away so long I've forgotten what it's like to be here. Maybe then."

He sighed, kissing her forehead one more time. "Come, Myra. We have a lot to discuss."

* * *

"I wish you'd just punch me and get it over with."

Robert was standing by the hearth, the warm glow casting strange shadows on his face so late in the evening. His crown sat on his desk, alongside an empty, unused goblet and a half written letter. He'd never known the man to write anything of his own, not in a long time. It was almost surprising he remembered the letters.

Ned might have laughed at that, once.

And now he wasn't sure what to do.

Before he had entered the chambers, Ned had ideas on what to say. Sentences he'd practiced over and over again, an entire speech maybe, meant to shame his friend into utter submission, but the moment he passed the doors, the words were lost to him. As were his emotions. They were too few or too many, but either way, he felt nothing as he looked at Robert.

That included the love he once held for the man.

Perhaps now he was well and truly alone in the world.

"Damn it, Ned, scream, throw a chair or something. You're making me nervous, sitting there all gloomy."

Maybe that was what he intended. Robert preferred active confrontation. Passiveness got under his skin. It was a better punishment.

"And invite your guard to attack me?" Ned spoke, finding his words again. "I think not."

Robert snorted, but said nothing. They fell into silence again, neither moving. Ned could not say how long they had been there. He briefly recalled seeing the sun when he had entered the room, but it had grown dark now. Had it truly only been one day? Surely a lifetime had passed since then.

Ned flexed his fingers, curling them into fists and relaxing them again. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the pin reflecting the fire's light on its golden surface. It felt so much heavier now, as if it might drag him down to the floor and never let him stand again.

He took a breath. "She is my daughter, Robert."

The king sighed. "I know."

"Then why?" Ned asked. He watched his friend stare into the flames for a long time, but received no response. Anger propelled him further into the room. "You attacked my daughter, left her broken and bruised, I will not suffer silence from you."

"And what do you want me to say?!" Robert shouted. This was the kind of conflict he wanted, a shouting match he could always win. "That I take pleasure in beating young women? That the damn girl came at me and I defended myself? I don't have an excuse Ned, and I don't plan on coming up with one!"

Ned stepped closer until he was just out of arm's reach of his king. Any further and he would be tempted to take Robert's advice.

"You thought she was Lyanna, and you assaulted her for it!" Ned continued, raising his voice to match Robert's. He wondered how the kingsguard was still outside the door. "Is that how you would have treated my sister?"

"You damn well know it isn't. I loved Lyanna."

"Aye, but you didn't know her," Ned replied, remembering a girl with dark hair and a spirit so stubborn even Robert could not match it. "All you saw was her beauty and nothing else. She'd have fought you tooth and nail on anything she didn't agree on. And what would you give her, Robert? The back of your hand as you do Cersei Lannister?"

Robert made a choking noise. "If you think that I-"

"We all loved her, Robert!" Ned shouted, cutting him off. The king did not get to win, not this time. "I held her when she was born, and when she died, and I mourned her, but it was seventeen years ago. You have to let her go!"

To that, the king had no reply, but his eyes told much more. Ned could see all the emotion playing in them, various stages of grief, anger, disbelief. One moment he was the man who slew the Last Dragon and in the next he was the one who discovered it was all for naught.

Ned took a deep breath and sighed. He could not hold on to his anger, not even now. The pitiful creature standing before him did not feel worth the effort.

"There's a darkness in me, Ned," Robert said solemnly, his eyes back to the flames. "Maybe you already know that. It taunts me day and night, with his face, with hers. I can't be rid of them."

His friend paused, turning away to look at him again, meeting his eyes with a seriousness Ned had not seen in some time. "I did know Lyanna. Not as well as you, but I knew her. Thought I might tame her I guess. I don't know. Half my youth is drunk and the other half is passed out from being drunk. I'm surprised I remember her face at all.

"But what I do remember…She wouldn't take anything from anyone, bit like your other daughter. But somehow,  _he_  got his way with her. Rhaegar Targaryen."

He watched Robert's fists clench. "He took her and he killed her. I know it. We all know it. But some part of me deep down wonders how; some part of me always thought she might have left with him. And why not? He was a pretty boy that made all the girls swoon with his silver hair and stupid harp."

_Promise me, Ned._

Closing his eyes, Ned turned away. He was a hypocrite, he knew, daring his friend to let go of a past he had yet to shake himself from. But the situation was different, he told himself, and far more dangerous.

"I thought she was a dream, Ned. Just another damn dream come to make my life miserable once again. I would never…could never…"

"But you did," Ned mumbled, his voice returning.

"But I did," Robert echoed. "And I'll burn in all seven hells for it."

The man sounded almost willing to do so. It was not an apology, not much of one at least, but from what Ned had gathered, Robert had spoken as much to Myra earlier, and it would have to do for now. As much as he wanted to walk away from it all, fate had determined he had other things to see through.

"I suppose I can make Jaime Lannister the Hand," Robert continued, noting his silence. "The man is apparently better than me at any rate. Cersei'll be unbearable now, not that she wasn't before."

"There's no need," Ned replied, glancing over his shoulder. "I'm staying."

Robert blinked. "What sort of damned fool are you, Stark?"

"The desperate kind," he said with a sigh, moving to sit in a chair by the hearth. "My wife was here, Robert, in secret, not very long ago. She brought a dagger with her, one used in the attempted murder of our son, Bran. We were…informed that the dagger belonged to Lord Tyrion. She has since encountered him on the road and taken him prisoner."

He knew Robert was surprised when he was silent for a full minute. The man slowly sank into the chair next to him, an utterly blank look on his face as he processed all that had been provided to him.

"Seven fucking hells, Ned."

That seemed an appropriate reaction.

"Ser Jaime does not know yet, nor should he."

"And how do you propose we keep him in the dark? This damn place is so full of holes, it's a wonder the thing still stands," Robert replied, his eyes lighting as the idea dawned on him. "Surely, you're not asking me to lock up a man who we both somehow owe because your family wrongfully took his brother prisoner."

Ned was too ashamed to reply.

Robert sighed, eying his goblet in the distance. "Where'd she take him?"

"Somewhere near the crossroads, or so I'm told."

"She'll take the Imp to the Eyrie, the Others take it," Robert mumbled, standing again. "The instant Tywin Lannister gets word his son's a prisoner, he'll burn half the country down just to make a point, and I can't say I blame him."

"If Lord Tywin is reminded that his other son is here…"

"I'm not making the man my prisoner!" Robert shouted, rubbing his head. "I'll keep him from killing you, but that's all I promise. Besides, his father'll see it as an act of war. He'll burn King's Landing down before letting us use his son against him, or do you not remember the last time a king tried that?"

Ned felt like a fool. It was a rare thing, Robert being the diplomatic one. Usually he wanted to charge in headfirst without pausing to think of the consequences. And these words he himself spoke? They hardly sounded like him at all. This had been a long day for everyone it seemed.

Again, Robert sank in the chair, pointing a finger at him. "Write a letter, send a rider, I don't care what you do. Get ahead of this, Ned."

They had both dug their graves. Now it was time to lie in them.


	14. The Departures

**Myra**

The day Myra Stark departed King's Landing had dawned bright and clear. A warm breeze had risen from the south, perfect for guiding her ship from its harbor, and the seas had calmed so that from a distance, Blackwater Bay appeared to be nothing but glass. It seemed that even nature approved of her leaving.

She might have taken it as a good sign, once, but she knew that all the beauty was only a façade. A storm lingered beneath the calm, raging with strength enough to break the kingdom in two, and here she stood on one of the visible cracks, waiting for the inevitable.

There were no lulls to this storm. One moment, she had been a girl hiding in fear of a king, and now her father would task her to face his brother, one infinitely more disagreeable if the words were true, and convince him to come back to the very place he fled.

It would take an army to drag her back to King's Landing, and she did not carry the secrets Stannis Baratheon did.

Or rather, she would not for much longer.

Word of Tyrion Lannister's capture would spread like wildfire across every village. After all, there was only one imp who could dress as he did and call forth enough ire to have as many swords pointed at him as Varys had implied.

Was it fate, Myra wondered, that he and her mother happened upon the inn at the same time? Were they bound to meet with disaster?

She looked to the dagger in her hands. It was not overly ornate, but the dragonbone hilt and Valyrian steel made it nearly invaluable. A man in King's Landing could live comfortably after selling it, if he were ever lucky enough to come into possession of it.

And a simple man  _had_  come to hold it. He had taken in to her home and carved open her mother's hands with it; he had meant to open her brother's throat with it. And for what? It was an answer they still did not have, and all the proof that existed to Tyrion's treachery was the word of a glorified brothel owner, a man whom she neither trusted nor believed.

That was why her father had entrusted it to her. It was all they had, and in a place like King's Landing, things never stayed secret or safe. With her, the dagger would remain, close at hand, until it was needed again. And she had no doubt Stannis might find interest in it. He was no fan of the Lannisters either; he might find the situation to be more of an…opportunity than others.

The thought left a foul taste in her mouth.

Myra wrapped the dagger back in one of her dresses, taking care not to cut herself. Here she was, desperate to flee the game, and instead she had been thrust deeper into its clutches, where lives rather than pride were at risk. If she was her father's only hope at remedying things, Myra was afraid things were about to get terribly worse.

She took a moment to watch her trembling hand before slamming her trunk shut.

"None of these dresses will work for you back home," Syrena mused behind her, either not noticing or choosing to ignore Myra's silence. She could guess at which. "I have never been so far north, but given how warm all of you are here, I expect sleeveless is not the choice most ladies would go with."

"And do you find it cold here?" Myra asked, turning to the handmaiden. She had laid all the unpacked clothes on the bed, sorting them by weight and even color. Syrena was certainly organized, Myra would give her that.

"When I first came, it did not stop raining for a week," Syrena replied, a soft smile gracing her tan features. "I had never seen so much before; I thought it might flood the world and drown us. Or me, at least. But the cooler air did not bother me much, so long as I was dry. Nights in Dorne can be just as savage as the days."

"I always wondered how anyone could live there," Myra murmured, picking at the fabric of some yellow dress she never got the chance to wear. Sansa might enjoy it. It was a little much for a girl of her age, but their father had always relented to her pleas.

"And we wonder how anyone can live where you do."

Myra smiled softly, thinking back to her far off and isolated home. She supposed it would be difficult for outsiders to understand why anyone would want to live in a place others deemed a cold wasteland, but that wasteland was the only thing she wanted to see again, and she had to wonder when she actually would.

"May I ask something of you?"

Syrena nodded. "Of course, my lady."

"Will you watch out for Sansa?" Myra asked, turning her gaze back to the handmaiden. "I can't exactly bring you to Winterfell, you'd go mad within the hour, but the queen did trust you to me. I doubt she would mind if your service moved to my sister. After all, she is supposed to marry her son.

"Arya can handle herself, but I fear Sansa will find out what King's Landing is like all too quickly, and sometimes a septa is the last person you want to confess your fears to."

Syrena watched her for a good while, her dark eyes thoughtful, and perhaps surprised? It was hard to say. Her handmaiden was a difficult person to read, but Myra had gathered enough about her to realize that her obedient attitude might be a front entirely. There was a fierceness to the Dornish girl, one that made her wonder why she would choose a life in service.

The woman nodded once. "I will watch after her, my lady, you have my word."

* * *

It was a small party that saw her off at the docks, mostly family and the servants they had brought with from the North, the exception being Renly Baratheon.

He looked regal in his doublet, with the gilded stags of his house crisscrossing the dark green pattern. His beard was neatly trimmed and not a hair on his head was out of place. She briefly recalled her words to Robb on the day she left home all those months ago, about fancy men and her utter disinterest in them. How he would have laughed to see that she had almost chosen the fanciest of them all.

She stood off to one side of the group with him for a moment, her father allowing them a moment's privacy before her final goodbyes. Renly had decided to make a show of it all, placing his lips to her hand the instant they approached one another. It was the first time it did not make her blush like a maiden. Rather, she just wanted him to be done with it.

"I don't suppose there is a chance I can convince you to stay?" Renly asked, his smile brighter than the sun shining above them.

It was as if a veil had been lifted from her eyes. Suddenly all his moves and gestures, they seemed so empty to her, promises that had no intention of ever being fulfilled. She wondered how she could have ever been so foolish.

Still, Myra wore a smile when she spoke to him. "I'm afraid not. Being so far from home, it takes its toll."

"Perhaps I should visit one day then. I've never been to the North."

Even before everything, Myra was certain she would be able to see his lie. Renly looked uncomfortable speaking the words, as if traveling to Winterfell was some sort of sentence for punishment.

She took his hand, squeezing it gently. "There will be no need, Renly. A woman can tell when she is not worth the effort."

Myra almost laughed at the look on Renly's face, like a child caught in the wrong. His smile disappeared and his eyes grew wide, though he tried to recover with a cough and a quick shuffle.

"It wasn't all bad," she continued, letting his hand go. "I think I might have liked Storm's End."

Renly looked back up, genuine warmth to his face. "As do I, my lady."

The young Lord of the Stormlands did not stay long after, disappearing into the gathering crowd as soon as her head had turned, but Myra wanted to believe they had parted on decent terms. There was at least one Baratheon she would have no problems dealing with in her future, but as for the other two…

Robert did not show up to the docks, whether it was to avoid conflict with her over everything or suspicion that the king would even show up to a small affair such as this one, she could not be certain. Part of her was glad, but another was disappointed. She found herself glancing to the archway leading to the city often, hoping to catch a glimpse of white.

She played with her fingers as the guilt gnawed away at her insides.

Jaime Lannister did not deserve to hear about his brother secondhand. She owed him the truth, given everything he had done for her, and yet here she stood, running from King's Landing, hoping to turn the tide that her family had brought on itself. There had been ample opportunity to speak with him after her father had confessed, but she had remained in her room, shut away from everyone so the words would not escape.

Was it fear that kept her mouth closed or shame?

A small figure slammed into her body, knocking Myra from her thoughts as she fought to steady herself. Arya had wrapped her arms around her middle tightly, with no indication of ever letting go. It was impressive, given that when their father had announced her departure the previous night, she had shouted a string of improper words before locking herself in her room. The sound of her little sword hitting pillows came not long after.

"Don't go," Arya mumbled into the fabric of her dress. "Please don't go."

Her sisters did not know the truth, and if the gods were good, they never would.

Myra ran a hand through her sister's hair before untangling her arms from around her. "You're always welcome to come with me, you know."

Big, round eyes met her. "But I-"

She chuckled, kneeling down. "I know. Life is good for you here. You have your dancing lessons and your cats to chase but…it hasn't been all that good for me. Do you believe someone should stay where they aren't happy?"

"No," her sister replied, looking downcast.

"Besides," Myra said, putting a hand on Arya's cheek, lifting her face. "I think our brothers are a right mess without me."

That brought a smile to her sister's face, though it was short lived. She hugged her again, and Myra returned it, feeling like the one unwilling to let go this time. Why did it feel as though she would never do this again?

Sansa was more subdued with her goodbye, ever the proper lady, but Myra knew the girl well enough. She was disappointed that Myra was leaving. There would be no one to talk with other than Septa Mordane now, because the Others forbid she interact with her younger sister.

"Will you come back when I get married?" Sansa asked, holding her hands. "Please tell me you will."

Myra could not help but smile. That was so like Sansa, making something about her even when it should not have been. But that was her way of expressing her feelings. It was how she believed a proper lady should act, and Myra hoped she remained that way forever if it meant no harm ever came to her.

"If the gods are kind to Father, that won't be for a while yet," Myra replied, ignoring the disappointed look on her sister's face. "But when it happens, I will be here. Just give me some time to catch my breath before you go saying your vows."

That seemed to cheer Sansa some as she, too, hugged her goodbye.

Myra said her farewells to the various members of their household, Septa Mordane, Vayon and Jeyne Poole, and the like, before making her way to her father and Jory as they stood on the dock before the small boat that would take her to a larger ship out in the bay. The captain of the guard would be traveling with her, keeping his word to protect her, and was dressed for the occasion, though he was eying the water warily. Her father, however, was not. He still wore his day-to-day clothes, the golden pin of the Hand of the King still clinging tightly to the leather.

Jory nodded as she approached. "Whenever you are ready, my lady."

Would never be an appropriate answer?

He boarded the boat next to the dock leaving Myra alone with her father. Neither moved for some time, yet somehow so much was spoken between them, of friendship and betrayal and the desperate need for something to go right for them in this forsaken city.

Then her arms were around his neck, clinging tightly to him as she ignored the pain in her arms. Her father held her just as fiercely, nearly lifting her from the dock.

"I will bring him back, father," she whispered in his ear. "If it's the last thing I do, I'll get him to return."

Ned set her down, holding her head in both his hands. "Don't make it the last thing, Myra. Don't pay for the sins of your mother and I."

"And don't you pay for his," Myra replied through clenched teeth, willing away the tears.

A strange look passed over her father's face before he bent down and pressed a kiss to her forehead. She closed her eyes, attempting to make the moment last; she wanted to remember everything, the feelings, the smells, the sounds. Myra wanted to commit it all to memory, to last her through the journey and beyond, when the cold enveloped her at home and the fires of her hearth did nothing to warm her, Myra wanted to look back to this moment and remember her father.

Perhaps they both knew then that they would never see one another again.

* * *

**Jaime**

They would pay, every last one of them.

He should have known something was wrong when Ser Barristan all but locked him in the tower, keeping him from his duties and practically isolating him from everyone in the keep, but he had assumed it still had something to do with Myra Stark. Robert did not want to see him, and Cersei was still angry with him for being so foolish about it in the first place. Watching over Joffrey as he barely paid any attention to his head over heels betrothed was the only thing he had done remotely related to his position in the past couple days, and that had only been after Ser Barristan had no other options.

Word came to him midway through the week. He was in the training yard, standing over a dummy he had knocked down with single swipe of his sword. His mind had travelled elsewhere. Normally, the crumpled form of Aerys would appear when it did, but that day he saw Robert, his eyes wide and mouth parted as though cut off mid-laugh.

When he pictured a pair of gray eyes watching him, Jaime shook off the images. His eyes opened again to a Lannister guard, and five words he wished he'd never heard.

_Lord Tyrion has been taken._

He almost punched the man right then and there, but instead took out his anger on the next practice dummy, lodging the training sword into its skull.

Now he stood in Cersei's quarters, surrounded by six of their most trusted Lannister guards, all officers, all veterans, all loyal to the death. Jaime had exchanged his golden armor for the red and black of his house. Golden lions sat on his shoulders rather than a golden crown on his chest. He felt more powerful now than he had all the years in the Kingsguard.

"This is treason," Cersei spoke, though her words were not in anger. After all, she had been the one who brought in the soldiers, dismissing Ser Arys the instant Jaime had entered the room. She did not care for Tyrion; she never had, but Cersei  _did_  care for House Lannister and would strive to bring down anyone who thought they could harm their family without swift and deadly consequences. And right now, that was all that mattered to him.

"I don't plan on being here long enough for your husband to do anything about it," Jaime replied, drawing his sword. The sound of real steel releasing from its scabbard ignited an excitement in him that he had not felt in some time. There would be real bloodshed today, and he could not deny that he had missed it. "You're positive he's with Maester Pycelle?"

Cersei nodded. "Of course I am. I had the old man send for him. They're talking about some book."

Jaime looked back to his sword. He pictured it covered in Ned Stark's blood. Actually killing him was not his goal, but the image pleased him nonetheless.

"Start for the rookery," Jaime said, looking to his men. "Two at a time. I don't want you attracting any attention before we have our chance."

All six soldiers nodded and departed the room in staggered times. When they had finally cleared, Cersei dared to approach him, interlacing her hand in his free one and leaning her head over his shoulder, so she could whisper in his ear.

"You should have taken this outside the keep."

Jaime shook his head. "He won't leave. The only reason Ned Stark is still Hand of the King is because he expects it to protect him. I'll prove to him otherwise."

"You're going to leave me," she murmured, anger in her tone. "You were never supposed to leave me again."

Sheathing his sword, Jaime whirled on Cersei, grasping her tightly and pulling her body close to his. He could see the excitement in her green eyes.

"I'll come back, and with the whole Lannister army if I have to. The Riverlands will burn, and the Vale, and every person standing between us."

He captured her lips with his, the urgency of the situation dispelling all precaution they had against discovery. Cersei matched his ferocity for a time before pulling away, mouth to his ear as he nuzzled her neck.

"It won't be enough," she whispered, breath hot against his skin. "Find the girl and take her. Let the Starks know that no matter what they do, they cannot protect the ones they love."

Jaime did not hear the jealousy in her voice. He did not notice how she used his anger at Tyrion's capture to pursue things he would not think of doing. All he knew was her smell and her taste, his better half, golden perfection.

* * *

In less than an hour, Jaime and his soldiers had advanced up the rookery steps, their attempts at subtlety all but gone. Servants fled at the sight of them and other guards stood meekly by, the reputation of the Kingslayer all they needed to keep their swords sheathed.

By the time they reached the door to Maester Pycelle's solar, Jaime was blinded by rage. He did not know what would keep him from shoving his sword through Ned Stark's ribcage, and at this point, he no longer cared. Damn the consequences. Damn the Starks. They had judged his family for the last time.

He and his soldiers stormed the room, filing in quickly in case the Hand had brought any guards with them, but all were surprised to discover that only Pycelle was there, quivering like a leaf as he always did, a moment away from falling over. After glancing around, Jaime marched right up to the old fool, shoving him down into the chair before his desk. He drew his knife and held it right up to the man's neck.

"Where is Stark?"

Pycelle did not even flinch. "Ser Jaime, you must-"

"He's right here."

Jaime drew his sword, as did his men, and turned to face Ned Stark. The Hand of the King stood just outside the doorway, completely unarmed, but he was not alone. From behind him, six other men entered the room, their armor gold and their cloaks white. At the head was Ser Barristan, his helmet removed and sword drawn. He stood between Jaime and Ned as the others blocked the Lannister soldiers.

King Robert entered the room last, looking awfully proud of himself. "You chose a piss poor day to become a traitor, Kingslayer. Now put your damn sword down before you make a fool of yourself."

Alone, Jaime might have been able to take Ser Barristan, though the man would have undoubtedly cut down half his soldiers before then, but surrounded by the rest of the Kingsguard, he knew his small group had no chance. With a grimace, he tossed his sword to the floor. Its metallic clangs were followed by six similar ones.

"I suppose you've wanted to do this for some time," Jaime said, watching Ser Barristan's sword. "It's a shame we couldn't end this with a proper duel. I've always wanted to test myself against you."

Ser Barristan looked disappointed. "If that is all the shame you feel, you do not deserve such an honorable death."

Jaime felt a pang in his chest.

"Is this the King's justice?" he asked, looking to the king. He may have been able to stay his hand, but his tongue would not go quietly into custody. "My brother is wrongfully taken captive and you would defend the man whose family did it? You're declaring war."

Robert stomped toward him, brushing past Ser Barristan as though he weighed nothing. "You'd like that, wouldn't you? I certainly would. I'd like to have your pretty head resting on the gates for your father to see when he gets here, but we don't get what we want."

The king turned away then and stormed back out of the room. Ned glanced in Jaime's direction for a moment. He did not even have the decency to look ashamed as he met his eyes. No doubt the high and mighty Lord Stark still thought himself better. After all, he had broken no vows, only the peace, and that was apparently not a crime.

Stark followed the king out of the room. The Kingsguard shepherded his men out as well, leaving Jaime alone with Ser Barristan, and a quiet Pycelle.

"To the dungeons then?" Jaime asked, feeling his ill-timed humor returning with a vengeance.

"We're not putting you in a cell," Ser Barristan said, turning to leave. "You're getting on a boat."

* * *

Jaime had to wonder how long Robert and Ned had been planning this little trap of theirs. Their very large and obvious group did not encounter a single noble on their way out of the Red Keep. Did they actually plan on keeping all of this a secret? Nothing stayed that way in King's Landing. Besides, Cersei would have their father informed well before he even reached his destination, wherever that might be.

They did not use the public docks, but instead took to the private beach just outside the keep. Even there, no ladies in waiting could be found, no young lords attempting to charm their way past a woman's decency, just waves and a small rowboat. In the distance, he could see a ship with the king's sigils on the sails.

"I do hope you're not sending me anywhere cold," Jaime said as he watched his soldiers get escorted onto the boat. The wind kicked up, whipping his golden hair about his face. For once, the air smelled of the sea rather than piss. It was almost a lovely day.

"The Vale cold enough for you?" Robert asked, standing to the side with Ned and Ser Barristan.

Jaime felt his eyes narrow. What were they up to?

Robert looked to Ned, who in turn sighed. "Ser Jaime Lannister, on the king's order, you are to travel to the Eyrie, where you will take possession of your brother, Tyrion Lannister, and return him safely to King's Landing.

"You will then convince your father to cease any and all hostilities. If he fails to do so, Lord Tywin will be brought up on charges."

It was a desperate ploy to save their skins. If Ned Stark thought he was going to be grateful for the opportunity to save his brother from his mistake, he was a bigger fool than Jaime thought.

"And what of Lady Stark's hostilities?" Jaime asked, noting how Ned tensed up. He wished the man would try. "What sort of charges should she face? A smack on the wrist? Going to bed without supper perhaps?"

Ned paused a moment, glancing at Robert. "If your brother is found innocent of his charges, I will personally take the punishment for my wife's actions, but not before."

In a fit of anger, Jaime took a step forward, only to find the flat of Ser Barristan's sword pressed against his chest.

"What damned charges?!"

"The attempted murder of my son, Brandon Stark."

The world fell still. Jaime could no longer hear the waves as they broke on the beach or the gulls that flew overhead. The wind was gone and the men around him as well.

He was back in Winterfell, in a broken tower they thought no one would bother to look in. Cersei stared at him, hair tumbling across her shoulders, eyes wide in fear. His hand was on a small boy, no older than Myrcella, who had seen more than he should have.

_The things I do for love._

No. No one had seen; no one could know. He had made certain that there were no witnesses. Tyrion could not be suffering for his actions. It was the last thing he ever wanted.

"Your son fell." Jaime nearly choked on the words.

An unreadable look passed over Ned's face. "He did. And then a cutthroat was sent to see that he never woke up. He attacked my wife and left her hands scarred before my son's wolf tore his throat out."

Jaime blinked, his fear and anger replaced by confusion. The boy had been attacked? He had to wonder if Cersei had ordered it done. It was not below his sister, especially if she deemed her family was in danger, but she would have told him. Or at least, she would have after it failed.

But Tyrion? That was not how his brother did things.

"And what proof do you have?" Jaime asked, glancing between the men around him. He would not leave until they told him.

Perhaps they knew that, because Ned Stark gave him the answer.

"A dagger your brother won on Prince Joffrey's nameday tournament. It was the weapon used on my family."

A dagger? Jaime could not recall anything in his brother's possession that could hurt anyone, save for his wit.

There was a strange look on Robert's face. Surprise, maybe. But when he noticed Jaime's attention, his face became stoic again. It seemed the all parties involved had their secrets.

Jaime took a breath, trying to calm the anger boiling in his blood again. Despite everything against them, he did not want to lose his chance at saving his brother. Their father would see things taken care of soon enough, and these fools were willing to let go of the only leverage they would have against him.

"Let me speak to Lord Stark alone," Jaime said, eying Ser Barristan. "I'm no longer armed. I'll only be able to hit him once before you strike me down."

"I'd take your arm before you had the chance," Ser Barristan replied, voice even. He believed it.

Jaime shrugged. "Well, you are getting old."

"Come on, Barristan, this cat has no claws." Robert snorted, moving away. "And take off that stupid armor, Kingslayer. You're on my business now, not your father's."

He waited until the king was gone, watching Ned Stark all the while. The Hand met his gaze, never flinching. After everything he had done for the man in the past couple days, he would dare look at him this way. Perhaps his daughter did not mean as much to him after all.

Slowly, Jaime walked toward the man, only stopping when their shoulders brushed with one another. He kept his eyes focused on the sea, on the ship that would take him to his brother.

"I don't know where your 'proof' comes from, whether it's the spider or one of the other cunts on Robert's Small Council, and I don't care. But you should know, I didn't win the tourney on Joffrey's nameday, and my brother never bets against me. He walked away with nothing." Jaime turned to Ned, feeling satisfaction at the very uncertain gaze on the Northman's face. "So, if you decide to keep pursuing this, I'll make it quick for both our families. You and me before the gods and the realm. We'll see if all the Starks were meant to die in the South."

As the boat rowed away toward the sea, Jaime watched the vanishing shoreline. He hoped Ned Stark continued his foolish quest; he hoped he got the chance to end the man once and for all.

A Lannister always pays his debts.

* * *

**Myra**

In the darkness of her cabin, Myra woke with a start. She sat up in her cot abruptly, still feeling the grip of a hand on her face. Her nightclothes were soaked with sweat, as were the sheets she slept on, but her body was chilled to the bone.

Willing herself to calm down, she glanced out one of the slits that qualified as a window in the hull of the ship. The sea was still and the morning dark, but in the distance she could make out color on the horizon. Dawn was approaching. She very much doubted she could return to sleep now.

Not that she wanted to.

Myra eased herself out of bed, taking care not to make much noise. Their vessel was a small one, perfect for traveling relatively unnoticed, but not the best for privacy. She had called out in a dream once and gotten the attention of everyone on board.

Easing on one of her heavier dresses (the climate had changed drastically in the time they had departed King's Landing), Myra moved onto the deck of the ship, the cool remains of the night air chasing the terrors of her dreams away. She took a deep breath, enjoying the crispness. It was nothing like home, but it was still far better than the thick humidity of King's Landing.

There was a figure leaning on the portside railing, the only one to be seen other than the night guard at the bow of the ship. Myra knew it instantly to be Jory. She wasn't certain he had slept a wink since the ship had departed. At the very least, not since they had arrived at Dragonstone.

It loomed in the distance, a dark, volcanic island that smelled of ash and sulfur even as far out as they were. If she squinted, Myra thought she could see the steam rising from Dragonmont, and below it, the castle of Dragonstone. Its brickwork was shaped to look like dragons, from the lowest archway to the highest tower, the Targaryens had made their sigil known. Old Nan had said it was sorcery that shaped the castle. She had always found that hard to believe.

They had arrived after a little over two days of sailing, and had been waiting for three. Ships patrolled the coastal perimeter of the island, and threatened to sink any vessel that dare come too close. On the first day, they had left a message with one of the captains, explaining that they were to see Stannis on the Hand of the King's business, but there had been no sign of reprieve since.

"Bad dreams, my lady?" Jory asked, standing straight.

"Bad memories, more like," Myra replied, though she quickly added after seeing his discomfort, "Don't blame yourself for things out of your control. We'd all go mad within a fortnight."

Jory nodded, but did not look any better for it.

Myra sighed, watching the darkness for any signs of movement. "Do you think they'll come today?"

"I hope so, my lady," Jory answered, gripping the railing. He seemed to be willing ships into existence. "The men grow restless. We won't be staying here much longer either way."

Disappointment bloomed in her chest. Failing to convince Stannis to return to King's Landing would be one thing, but to not even be given the opportunity to try? It was shameful.

"Perhaps you should take your own advice, my lady," Jory continued, a hint of a smirk on his face. The stubble on his face had grown longer. He was uncomfortable with the thought of shaving on the open sea. "Lord Stannis sees demons in every dark corner. If he truly does not wish to see anyone, it will take a lot more than you or I to convince him otherwise."

His words rang with truth, Myra knew this, but she still did not like the thought of simply running home to hide from everything.

"Would a man as dutiful as Lord Stannis risk committing treason to hide in his home?"

The words sounded strange to her, as if spoken by someone else.

Jory shook his head, lowering his voice. "That is a dangerous ploy, my lady. I would not advise repeating it."

"Would it work?"

Her guard sighed. "I met Lord Stannis once, during the Greyjoy Rebellion. He's a mind for strategy and tactics, and little else. You'll not find a man who loathes the game more than him. Attempt to play it and we'll be kicked from Dragonstone so swiftly, we'll wonder if we were ever actually there."

Myra huffed, but nodded eventually. Jory was right, as was usually the case. She was not even good at the game. Her fumbling attempts would only hurt her cause, and see her father put in more danger.

The sun soon broke over the horizon, its warm rays stretching across Blackwater Bay. A fog had begun to crawl across the waterway, enveloping scattered, small islands, but it was not so thick that those on deck could not see a ship approaching.

There were shouts, and suddenly the entire crew was on deck. Some manned the sails, others the anchor. They looked ready to move, or to fight.

The ship was no bigger than theirs, its sails yellow and brandishing the stag of House Baratheon. A smaller flag was tied to the centermost mast, depicting a black ship with an onion on its sail.

"The Onion Knight," Jory murmured under his breath, so quiet she almost did not hear. She knew the name. Ser Davos, the Onion Knight, was a smuggler who aided Storm's End when it was under siege during Robert's Rebellion. Lord Stannis had knighted him for the effort.

She wondered if Stannis thought they would be offended by such a lowly man greeting them. If so, he forgot her father's captain of the guard was not even a knight himself.

At the bow of the ship stood an older man, Ser Davos she presumed, his hair and beard graying and his face weathered from too many days on the sea. Though he wore a serious frown, Myra did not find herself intimidated by the man. If anything, it may have been the opposite.

A young man stood next to him, equally solemn. He reminded her of Robb playing at being lord.

"Good morning, my lady. Ser," he called out once his ship was in range. His crew did not appear ready to fight but that did not make her men any less tense. "I am Ser Davos of House Seaworth, and this is my son, Matthos. Allow us to apologize for keeping you waiting, but you do realize that Dragonstone is not open to any ships."

"We do," Myra replied, straightening. She hoped she bore the poise and grace her mother had taught her, and was not making a fool of herself. "But I come on behalf of my father, Lord Eddard Stark, the Hand of the King. He requests Lord Stannis return to King's Landing so that he might receive his counsel."

Ser Davos nodded. "Aye, my lady, we received his missive some time ago."

"That is good to hear. We weren't certain the message had arrived, given there was no reply."

To her left, Jory made a noise. Ser Davos looked uncomfortable. Maybe she could do this after all.

"How can we be certain you come on the Hand's order?" Matthos called from beside his father, clearly angry. "You don't fly the king's colors. How do we know this isn't some sort of trick?"

Jory moved forward. "You would call my lady a liar?"

Myra put her hand on Jory's chest, stopping him. "Given the fate of the last Hand, we thought a less conspicuous approach was best. I apologize for any inconvenience this has caused, but my guard and I are the only ones here. We can hardly do any harm."

She glanced at Jory, and the frown set firmly on his face.

_I hope._

Ser Davos was quiet for longer than she would have liked, but eventually he nodded, mumbling something to Matthos. His son then began to shout orders at his crew.

"Lord Stannis has permitted you entry to Dragonstone. I am to escort you to the keep, where he awaits you and your father's proposal."

Myra barely fought off the smile that threatened to burst. Her journey was not over yet, but at least it was able to begin.

Maybe she could help her family after all.


	15. The Battles

**Myra**

However intimidating Dragonstone had been from her ship, the feeling grew tenfold as she stood at its base, staring up at its grotesque carvings and misshapen outcroppings from the docks. Whatever good feelings she had possessed when they started their journey toward the island had fled in fear of it.

"This place doesn't feel right," Jory mumbled next to her, looking no more comfortable than she did.

Ser Davos appeared beside them, looking as at home on the island as he had on his ship. His son was still dealing with the crew.

"You get used to it," he commented, shrugging at the terrible statues as if they depicted the Seven. "If you will follow me, my lady."

The interior of Dragonstone did nothing to ease the dread growing inside of her. Every hall was dark, barely lit by the torches on the walls or whatever sun that managed to trickle in from the outside. More carvings awaited them, shaped in ways that did not seem possible.

Perhaps Old Nan had been right after all.

Jory was eying the statues with an unease she had grown accustomed to over the past few days. His eyes darted to and fro, waiting for some stone creature to lash out at them, but each was no livelier than the empty halls they travelled. Still, that did not stop her from reaching out to move his hand, which lingered dangerously close to his sword hilt.

She doubted Stannis would be as forgiving as his brother when it came to drawn steel. From what she had heard, he was not forgiving at all. A mind for justice, yes, but the two seldom went hand in hand.

For his part, Jory complied, but she could not be certain for how long.

Finally, their path came to an end at two great, wooden doors. The threshold, like much of Dragonstone, depicted dragons and fire, terrible images. Two guards stood at the entryway, the stag of House Baratheon emblazoned on their chests. It occurred to her that she had not seen any other guards or even servants since they left the docks.

Ser Davos turned to her. "My lady, allow me a moment alone with Lord Stannis, and then I'll retrieve you."

She nodded, watching him slip through the large door as though it weighed nothing.

One of the guards was eying her. She returned his gaze until he had sense enough to look away.

With a tug on her arm, Jory led Myra away, out of earshot.

"I don't like this, my lady," he whispered, his gaze on the offending guard.

"So I gathered," she replied, unable to help the smirk. "But wasn't this your idea?"

Jory blinked. "Lord Stark told you?"

"He didn't have to. Father would have never come to the decision on his own. He'd rather tie me to the mast of a ship until I reached White Harbor before putting me in the middle of another mess."

The captain of the guard paled. "My lady, I-"

"I'm grateful, Jory," Myra said, cutting off what was no doubt an apology. The man looked surprised. "Really I…these past few days, I feel as though I have been the cause of so many things. For once, I want to be able to fix something."

His face softened, but any reply was prevented by the door opening.

Ser Davos nodded from the threshold. Myra took a deep breath. This was it.

The Great Hall of Dragonstone was perhaps the least strange room in the entire castle. There were fewer dragon motifs, replaced by stark lines and abrupt angles instead. Pillars gave way to vast openings on either side, looking out at Blackwater Bay and providing the most light she had seen. But there was something about the simplicity of it, and the lack of any formal decoration, that gave her even greater unease than the grotesque statues outside.

Or perhaps that came from the man before her.

Lord Stannis did not sit in the lord's seat. He stood beside it, fingers tapping on the arm rest; he was looking down, as if lost in thought.

Davos stepped aside. "My lord, allow me to introduce the Lady Myra of Winterfell and Ser Jory."

"He's not a ser," came a mumbled reply.

"My lord?"

Stannis Baratheon looked up. His hair was short and graying, and his face clean shaven. He appeared much older than Renly, and even Robert, and carried an authority she had never seen either brother possess. Even when King Robert was angry and bothered to look from his drink or his women, he could never encompass the cold, calculating feel of his younger brother. She had to wonder what sort of life led a man to feel like that.

"The North worships the Old Gods, not the Seven, thus there aren't many knighthoods north of the Neck," Stannis replied, so matter-of-fact that she wondered if it occurred to him how insulting the statement might be. "You aren't a septon, Ser Davos. I suggest you don't knight anyone."

Then his eyes were on her, dark things she doubted anyone could ever read. They were watching, waiting, and it took her far too long to realize that she was expected to speak next.

"Lord Stannis," Myra spoke with a nod. "My father has spoken a great deal about you…"

"No, he hasn't."

Myra blinked, "My lord?"

"No one has ever spoken about me at any length unless they needed something. I'm not ignorant enough to not realize that, nor am I vain enough to accept your poor attempts to tell me otherwise in what I assume is supposed to be flattery," Stannis continued. He sat in the lord's seat, a great piece of rock that looked to have sat on the island long before the castle did. "Whatever you've heard from your father, you heard only now because he was sending you to see me, so spare me your false courtesies or our business is concluded."

The hall grew frightfully silent. Outside, Myra could hear the booming of wave upon wave crashing against the rocks of the island. It sounded as though the whole sea wished to drown the castle and everyone within its walls, yet Dragonstone stood, indifferent to it all.

She saw Ser Davos, his face sympathetic, very much like any father watching a child in distress. It made her feel small, as though she had never been up to the task of speaking with the likes of Stannis, and he was witnessing her inevitable collapse.

It made her angry.

"My father, the Hand of the King, requests that you return to King's Landing."

Stannis watched her for a moment, his back as straight as his seat. "No."

Something waned deep inside, hope maybe, but Myra stood her ground. "And why not?"

If Stannis took offense to her sudden lack of propriety, he did not show it, though his next words had more bite.

"Because requests can be denied."

"My father is investigating the death of Jon Arryn and he needs your help."

"Jon Arryn got sick and died. It happens to us all."

"And if that were the case, you would not have fled the capital and hid yourself away in Dragonstone."

Stannis stood then, stepping from the dais to within an arm's reach of her. Like his brothers, he was a tall, built man who towered over her. It must have worked wonders in making his opponents feel much smaller than they were, but Myra found a strange sort of courage nestled deep within that encouraged her to maintain eye contact, the kind only found in desperation, when all you held dear was in danger.

"You would call me a coward?"

"My lord, I would call you rightfully concerned," Myra replied, searching for a flicker of anything in his eyes. "Men have died knowing less than you, and more will if you keep silent about it."

The Lord of Dragonstone turned away from her then, in thought. Past him, there was a doorway, no doubt leading to a council chamber or something like it. A woman stood in the threshold, watching. She was covered in red from head to toe, and carried a strange air of authority around her. Myra found her presence…unsettling.

"What I know," Stannis mumbled, turning back to her. "What I know is that some miles from here Tyrion Lannister is being held captive by your mother and I cannot help but wonder if that's the reason you're truly here."

Myra opened her mouth slowly. "I…can't deny the coincidence of it."

"Of course you can't!" Stannis barked, making her flinch. "Your father is in desperate need of allies. My arrival in King's Landing would only work to bolster his claim, with or without my consent. It will no longer be about Jon Arryn's murder, but some glorified pissing contest between my brother and Tywin Lannister."

He walked away from her, sitting back in his seat. Myra waited a moment, letting the air settle, and her heart return to its normal rhythm.

She took a breath. "My mother took Tyrion Lannister because she believes he tried to have my brother Brandon killed, and that the Lannisters are further involved with his crippling. My father is afraid her actions may cause more to come to light, and none of it good."

"The Lannisters are far more involved with the poisoning of King's Landing than either you or your father could possibly imagine," Stannis spoke after some time. She watched him look to Davos, and then to the woman, before surprising her entirely. "Jon Arryn died because he knew a simple truth: my brother, Robert, has no trueborn heirs, that the children Joffrey, Myrcella, and Tommen are bastards all."

It was as though something clicked in the back of her mind, like pieces were fitting together that she never thought to connect, a painting she had stared at but never truly seen. And suddenly, as the words were spoken to her, hollow and distant as though Stannis were on the far side of the island rather than in front of her, everything began to make sense.

"Their father is Jaime Lannister."

* * *

They had given her a room in one of the towers. Windwyrm, she thought they called it, but her mind had been in a daze ever since Stannis had finished speaking with her. She could not even recall climbing the stairs or sitting down, but here she was in a chair, perched on a balcony overlooking the sea. Her hands were playing with the Valyrian blade, turning it over and over again while her thoughts wandered.

_Bastards._

_Their father._

_Jaime Lannister._

It was the revelation of a lifetime, and all her soul could conjure was disappointment.

Perhaps it was just too much at once.

Perhaps after everything she had been through, she just did not care any longer.

But that did not sound like her.

In her absentmindedness, Myra nicked her finger. She watched the blood trickle down the length of her hand. The blade meant for Bran, covered once in her mother's blood, now hers. It was more than enough to make the thing a family heirloom.

The thought failed to entertain her.

"My lady?"

Myra had forgotten Jory was in the room. She looked over to him, standing a few feet back from the balcony. How long had he waited for her to say something, she wondered.

She quickly hid her hand in the folds of her dress, not wanting the man to get worked up over nothing. "It has been a long day, Jory."

"Aye, my lady," Jory replied, taking a cautious step forward. "But you convinced him to tell you the truth. The battle is half won."

Her smile held no mirth. "No, it isn't. We've lost."

There was a pause. "What do you mean?"

Myra put the dagger down, having half a mind to toss the thing in the sea and be done with it.

"Part of the reason Lord Stannis fled here was because the truth he knows, no one will believe," she spoke, giving word to the pieces she had put together. "Besides the fact that he's claiming the queen is…intimate with her brother, her twin no less…"

Unbidden, her thoughts raced to Robb, and she was forced to suppress the bile rising in her throat.

"If the princes and princess really are bastards, that would mean Robert has no heirs, making Stannis the next in line to inherit the throne. Even the simplest of men would find suspicion in that claim."

Jory was silent for a moment, considering. "But you believe him?"

"I do."

"Why?"

Myra blinked slowly. "It just…makes sense."

She looked back to the dagger, wondering. Someone had tried to kill Bran, because he had seen something, because his fall was supposed to kill him…

In her memory, she desperately searched for answers, back to that day, when everything terrible in her life had begun. Before she had fainted, when her eyes had first landed on the form of her brother, pale and broken in the mud. There had been so many there. Among the faces, green eyes stood out to her, in a plain coat, but with a face she would always recognize.

And just like that, the final pieces fell into place.

* * *

**Tyrion**

Life had certainly grown interesting. Of course, not in the way he wanted. He preferred his story to go the simple route filled with wine and women who could bend in ways his mind could not imagine, and he could imagine quite a bit.

Instead, his days had been filled with sky cells, a grotesque man named Mord, and two women whose ability to bend was limited by their overreaching sense of justice, or whatever skewed version they had taken to. After all, one had whisked him away from an inn so quickly, it was a wonder his head wasn't still spinning, and the other had locked him up in hopes of receiving a false confession.

Tyrion had no idea what he had done in his life to earn such ire from every woman he ran across, but he was desperately missing the days when Cersei was the only one he had to deal with.

Then again, if the trial did not go his way, he'd never have to deal with anyone again.

He looked to Ser Vardis Egan, dressed fully in his armor, brandishing a large shield with the sigil of House Arryn across it, and then to Bronn, the simple sellsword who had volunteered to fight for him, with nothing more than his sword and leathers.

Part of him wondered if he ought to just jump out the Moon Door now and be done with it.

It was just as little Lord Robert Arryn, who had wanted him to 'fly' from the moment he set foot in the castle, was about to call for the trial to begin that the door to the hall burst open. Gasps and murmurs shook the room as soldiers of both House Lannister and the City Watch of King's Landing entered the room. They all stood aside, allowing none other than Jaime to march through the threshold, looking every bit the knight the ladies dreamed of in his Kingsguard armor.

Tyrion thought he might faint on the spot.

"My dear brother," Tyrion breathed, his voice painfully high. "You have the most remarkable timing in all the Seven Kingdoms."

Jaime did not even acknowledge him. He strode forward, eyes set firmly on Lysa, his hand on the hilt of his sword. "What in the seven hells are you doing?"

Standing beside her sister, looking down on the Lannisters like she always had, Catelyn narrowed her eyes. "The same could be said of you, Ser Jaime. This is not King's Landing. What is a member of the Kingsguard doing in the Vale?"

The look his brother gave her could have skewered a boar. It delighted Tyrion.

"Acting on the orders of King Robert and your lord husband. It seems even dear old Ned cannot come to your defense on this one. I suggest not looking so proud of yourself."

A sword was drawn. Catelyn's man, Ser Rodrik Cassel, took a bold step forward. "Watch your words, Kingslayer."

Jaime did not hesitate. His sword was in his hand, pointed in Rodrik's direction before anyone could blink. Then more steel was drawn. Every man had a weapon, while the ladies shrieked and stepped back to the outer walls of the room, their skirts in hand. Tyrion swallowed hard, and took an extra step away from the Moon Door.

"I'm not here to answer to you!" Jaime shouted before turning to point his blade at everyone in the room. "Or any of you! You're to answer to me. Now can someone who isn't a halfwit tell me why my brother is still on trial when the king himself has ordered you to stand down?"

There was a long, drawn out moment of silence, only followed by soft murmurs to one another, none directly answering Jaime's query, and yet doing so all the same. No one had known, no one beyond those who needed to that was, and yet they had proceeded.

Tyrion balled his hands into fists, his chains jangling. "You would have received a raven days ago! You left me in the sky cell all that time? I could have died!"

Catelyn managed to look ashamed. "Lysa, is this true? Has King Robert ordered the release of Tyrion Lannister?"

Lysa Arryn, who had remained silent through the whole affair, appeared unaffected. Her lips were tightly shut, eyes boring into Jaime as if she could will him through the Moon Door herself.

Jaime was unmoved. "You told no one, as if you could get away with the murder of my brother."

"It is not murder. It is justice," Lysa replied. Around the room, more murmurs could be heard.

"Not the king's justice."

"King Robert has no claim over who I can and cannot try for harming my own. My Sweetrobin is the Warden of the East, and he demands an answer for his father's death." Lysa snaked an arm around her son, who had begun to fidget. "The trial will continue. The Kingslayer can either step aside or be thrown in his brother's cell."

Tyrion could not speak for a moment. He was too stunned by the stupidity of it all. The room was silent again, none of the lords wanting to openly go against the king's orders, but none foolish enough to speak out against their lady either. Even Catelyn looked unwilling to speak. Only Jaime would, but even he could not take them all on.

Jaime chuckled, frustrated, tapping his sword against the polished floor. "Fine, I'll play your foolish game. My brother demands trial by combat, and I will be his champion. We will leave this wretched place together, and you'll be short one knight. I do hope this is all worth it."

Lysa Arryn could only smile. It was cruel and wicked, but devoid of any intelligence. She played the game like a blind lack wit. Even Jaime could out-duel her with words, and he wasn't even trying.

"Your brother's champion has already been selected. Despite your threats against me, I will allow you the courtesy of watching this common sellsword fight for your brother's life."

She gestured toward Bronn, who had taken to leaning against one of the columns. He was cleaning his nails with a knife. Tyrion wished he could look so calm before death, but he supposed that took a good deal of not caring, and he cared about life very much.

The man looked around and shrugged. "Technically, he chose his brother first."

Jaime appeared ready to storm up the steps and slay Lysa himself. Instead, he tossed aside his cloak and hilt, no one daring to question his right to fight, and looked around the room. He spotted Ser Vardis, who looked ready to jump out the Moon Door as well.

Without a single word, he strode toward the knight. The man was easily heavier than his brother, and better protected, but Tyrion doubted there was a soul who believed that the fight would tilt in the Vale's favor, or even be on equal grounds.

Vardis brought his sword up, swinging it down, heavy and awkward. Jaime ducked to the side, slicing his sword across the nape of the knight's neck.

Lysa's champion dropped his shield, bringing his left hand up to his neck, while wildly swinging with his right, hoping to keep Jaime at bay.

Jaime swatted the sword aside with his own, before thrusting the blade deep into Vardis' abdomen. There was a sickening crunch. The audience gasped. A lady fainted. Tyrion could not take his eyes away though, as his brother practically lifted the man with his sword, watching the man's face until the light disappeared from his eyes and his body fell limp.

Tyrion could not help himself. He clapped; he did not care that all the Eyrie stared at him like some freak. They always had. Today, he wasn't dying and that was to be celebrated.

His brother pushed Ser Vardis off his sword with his boot, kicking the man's corpse down the Moon Door and into the open air. He stared down the opening for some time, his face blank. There were more gasps and angry mutters.

"The man is dead," Catelyn spoke up, shaking with anger. "Must you insult his corpse as well?"

"Lady Catelyn, ever the morally superior despite everything you do. You really have taken to the Stark name." Jaime grabbed his cloak, using it to wipe the blood from his sword. "Next time, why don't you look a little closer to home for someone to accuse? Save us all the trip."

His brother turned away then, heading for the doors.

Tyrion, now free from his chains thanks to Mord, looked to his audience. "My lords and ladies, it has been a pleasure, but I'm afraid I have stayed past my welcome. Bronn, would you care to join me? I do believe I owe you for nearly saving my life."

The sellsword, having barely looked up during the fight, eased off the column. "Sounds alright to me. Can't say I fancy being around here much more."

They began to leave the room.

"I know what you've done, Kingslayer!" Catelyn shouted them, her voice carrying across the stones of the Eyrie with great effect. "I know your family is guilty!"

Jaime turned around. He didn't look angry or frustrated, only amused. "I believe your daughter, Myra, would say otherwise. Perhaps you ought to ask her what the Lannisters have done for your family."

Tyrion did not dare look at Catelyn's face. He wanted to survive his trip home.

* * *

**Jaime**

His mind had wandered far away, to some place deep and dark, simple and inelegant. It was where he liked to think, where he retreated to when things grew too difficult for him. He had always thought that perhaps with time, it would grow easier to stay away from his retreat. Lately, it had felt very much the opposite.

He was vaguely aware of someone speaking. It only occurred to him that the words had been directed at him when things fell quiet.

Tyrion, seeming to sense this, repeated his question. "I said, should I ask?"

Jaime blinked. "Ask what?"

"About the Stark girl."

Oh yes, that. His brother  _would_ be curious.

They were riding down the high road, heading for the Bloody Gate and the Riverlands. The goldcloaks had been dismissed and were returning to King's Landing, but he still had about ten Lannister soldiers with him. If Robert thought he was actually going to return after everything, he was a bigger fool than even he thought. Perhaps if Catelyn had been reasonable, but now he had every desire to see Riverrun burn as his father did.

He had been quiet for a while, but Tyrion did not seem ready to give up. "Because, last I saw, you had barely spoken more than a few sentences to the girl. Mostly, you were out to antagonize her."

Jaime shrugged. "Catelyn Stark needed to learn her place. Family seems to hit home for her."

"It seems to hit home for you as well, seeing as how you came all this way," Tyrion replied. He looked around the hills for a moment before continuing. "You're forgetting I know you, Jaime. You aren't our sister. You never say anything unless it means something."

Sometimes, Jaime really wanted to hit his little brother.

The men had started to pull ahead of them, except for the sellsword, Bronn. He had not seemed inclined to take any interest in any sort of business that did not involve quick money, but he could not help but feel the man was listening anyway.

"Let's just say Robert truly misses Lyanna."

He watched the wheels turn in Tyrion's head, and enjoyed what precious moments of silence it gave him. For all the time he had missed his brother and longed for his level-headed conversation, now was not the time to discuss anything. He was still seething with anger, and did not want to say anything he would regret. Tyrion was good at remembering those particular outbursts.

"Did you hit him?" Tyrion asked after some time.

"Why does everyone assume I hit him?" Jaime asked, mildly offended. His brother gave him a knowing look. "No, I didn't hit him. I…reasoned with him."

"And how did that go?"

"He punched me."

"That sounds about right."

Tyrion was looking at the hills again. Jaime had heard about the clans that lived in the wilds of the Vale. No better than Wildlings and liable to attack anything that moved. His brother had never been the paranoid sort. Then again, he had never been a prisoner or put on trial. It seemed all the Lannisters were facing new challenges, mostly due to the Starks.

"It was good of you to do that," Tyrion continued, focusing on him once more. "Very noble, very honorable."

"Now you're mocking me."

"I am not!" his brother replied, taking his turn to be offended. "I am capable of being serious, you know, and I  _am_  being serious. There are a good many foolish things you've done in your life, Jaime. That will never be one of them."

Jaime smirked. "I'm finding it difficult to appreciate that compliment."

"It's been a long day. It seems I'll be incapable of being nice without some back-handed comment for a while."

"As opposed to your usual, charming self?"

The two brothers shared a chuckle, and Jaime felt months of tension roll off his shoulders. True, where they were headed was nothing to laugh at or be at ease about, but somehow he felt all the more capable of facing it with Tyrion at his side.

His brother sobered quickly. "Lady Catelyn accused me of sending a catspaw to kill her son."

Jaime frowned. "So did Ned Stark. He said you won the dagger."

"Which I didn't. You made a fool of yourself as I recall, and I walked away with nothing."

He snorted, thinking back to that day. The details were a blur, however. All the days in King's Landing were no different than the others, to include the tourneys. He couldn't even recall who had unseated him. Figuring out who walked away with the dagger was going to be a nightmare, and for all he knew, that person sold it long before their mess started.

But someone had done the deed. Someone knew.

And his family would never be safe until they were dead.

"I don't suppose you brought any wine with you, dear brother," Tyrion said, breaking through his thoughts. His brother always did know when he needed a distraction. "I have been painfully sober through this whole ordeal. This needs to be remedied."

Jaime shook his head, a ghost of a smile on his face. Wanting to dull his mind as much as his brother, he reached for a wineskin tied to his saddle.

Until an arrow took his horse in the eye.

Dead in moments, the creature barely grunted before collapsing to the ground, taking Jaime with it. His head smashed against a stone in the road as the horse fell on top of him, crushing his leg beneath its corpse.

He must have lost consciousness then, because next he knew, the party was in chaos. More horses littered the road, most with wounds that would not kill, but it did not stop them from screaming in agony. Lannister soldiers had fallen as well, red cloaks motionless in the dirt. Swarming around the survivors were ragged men dressed in leathers and poorly smithed armor, but Lannister superiority could not stop them from utterly decimating his forces.

Jaime turned every way he could, but there was no sign of his brother anywhere.

He pushed against his horse, attempting to pull himself from underneath, but the saddlebag had caught his foot and the weight was keeping it in place. But he kept at it nonetheless. He had to find Tyrion. He'd be damned if he saved his brother from one death sentence only to lead him into another.

Pulling at his leg again, Jaime almost missed the form approaching him from the other side of the horse. The clansman was a particularly ugly one, with a beard full of bits of food and blood, and missing teeth. His helmet sported various horns, and his hand one very large axe.

The man stepped on the corpse, balancing on the beast's side as he raised the axe overhead. With one swing, he could cleave Jaime's head in two, while still managing to bury half the thing in the road.

Jaime fingered the small blade at his hip.

With one leg caught beneath his horse, and the other awkwardly straddling the top of the creature, Jaime had to swing his body upward with all the force he could muster. His blade reached across the gap between him and the clansman, slicing the latter's shin.

The man slipped, his wounded leg falling back to the ground behind the horse, and his face catching the end of Jaime's knife as he slashed again.

His howls of pain guaranteeing momentary reprieve, Jaime set back to freeing himself. With one last, violent tug, he extracted his leg from beneath his horse and began to drag himself away.

Another man from behind was finishing off one of his soldiers, burying a blade into the back of the young man's neck. He caught sight of Jaime struggling to his feet and charged at him full speed, short sword swinging wildly, spraying those around him with the fresh blood of a dead man.

Jaime managed to gain his footing, unsheathing his sword straight across the clanman's abdomen, cutting through the leather and deep into his flesh. He died with his entrails strewn across the road.

Turning back around, he came face to face with the man from earlier.

There was more blood in his beard now, and a red blob where his left eye once was, the trail from his knife carved out on either side of it. Though he had cut deeply, the man did not walk with a limp on the wounded leg. He barely seemed to notice either injury.

He carried two axes now, a smaller one and one that was certainly meant to be wielded with two hands, but when he swung at Jaime, it was as though the thing weighed next to nothing.

Jaime dodged, ducking beneath the man's arm and shifting to his new blind spot. The clansman did not hesitate to swing his left arm backward, the tip of his axe catching Jaime in the arm before he spun away.

With two weapons, the man's reach would be nearly impossible to break through. Wearing him down would be the best option, but he did not have the luxury of time. Tyrion was out there.

The clansman swung one axe, then the other, over and over at a speed he should not have been able to maintain. Jaime would try to block with his sword, but it would deflect off uselessly, shaking his entire arm until it felt as though his shoulder would fall off.

Grabbing his knife again, Jaime used both blades to block the larger axe as it cut across, dropping down just before its partner could cut his head off from behind.

Within his defenses now, Jaime kicked out. He had thought to sweep his legs, but doubted he could manage to actually move the man. So, he went for the next obvious target.

When his boot connected with the man's groin, he dropped his guard just long enough for Jaime to dislodge his sword.

And shove it through his throat.

He watched the man sputter blood from his lips for a few moments before running off into the chaos.

"Tyrion!" he shouted, stumbling over the corpse of another Lannister soldier. "Tyrion!"

His brother was some ten feet away, attempting to pull an axe out of the skull of one of the clansmen. Jaime scrambled toward him, running his sword through a man before he drove his own through his brother's back.

"First rule of combat," Jaime shouted as he grabbed his brother by the shoulder and turned him around. "Never turn your back on the enemy!"

"I thought it was make sure you're armed!" Tyrion yelled back, accepting the knife Jaime handed down to him. "Let's make sure our father burns this fucking place to the ground!"

Jaime only grunted in response as he shoved aside another attacker, driving his sword into their abdomen. At the same moment, the tip of a blade burst through the man's mouth. He only narrowly avoided getting hit by the thing, but not the blood that sprayed all over his face.

Both blades withdrew at once. When the body fell, Jaime found himself staring at Bronn. He blinked. The sellsword shrugged. Then they were back to back with one another, fighting off the remaining attackers before the few intelligent ones decided to flee back into the hills.

It fell silent then. The horses had died; the wounded had bled out and died as well. There was nothing but a distant drone, the last pumps of adrenaline coursing through his body.

His arm was bleeding, that much he knew. It pulsed with every beat of his heart. He couldn't be sure about the rest of his body, however. The kingsguard armor always had been shit to fight in. It was more for visual appeal than actual combat, but that was why the king always took the best. Someone had to make it look good.

He glanced over at his brother, who was taking a good, long look at one of their dead soldiers. His brother had killed before, he could see that now, and the thought of that made something lurch in his stomach. It was something he never wanted, his little brother taking another life. Tyrion was not a fighter. He was a talker, a lecher, but he was not a killer, or at least he should not have been.

Jaime might have saved his brother from death, but he felt that he had failed him nonetheless.

"So," Bronn called out, drawing Jaime from his thoughts. "The horses are dead, your men are dead, and if we don't clear out of here by sundown, we'll be dead. Any suggestions?"

The two brothers eyed one another. Jaime took a breath.

"Fuck."

* * *

**Ned**

It had been a little over a week since he had sent his eldest child away, and he had yet to hear any word on her. Some not so small part of him had hoped Myra had given up on the whole ordeal and went straight for White Harbor instead of Dragonstone. While Stannis was likely to keep his mouth shut about any activity around his home, Ned knew Wyman Manderly. Had Myra crossed into his city, a raven would have found him, without a doubt.

Where was she now, he wondered. Safe, he hoped. The thought of damning his children for his mistakes was nearly unbearable.

He certainly hadn't slept since she had gone.

Sansa had hardly noticed, too preoccupied with learning how to be a future queen. At least one of his children was living their life carefree, relatively, but Arya was asking questions, too many. More than once she had offered to "stick" someone for him, and Ned wondered, not for the first time, if Syrio Forel was a terrible decision on his part.

When was the last time he had made a good decision for his children? It was a disturbing question, the answer equally so.

He couldn't remember.

Sighing, Ned looked away from the fire that he had been staring at for far too long. His eyes adjusted to the darkness of the room and spotted Robert sitting at his desk. He wasn't sure if the man had ever been to the Hand's solar, but he sat inside like he owned the place, though he supposed actually he did.

Ned had to wonder when his fists would stop clenching every time he laid eyes on him.

Robert was reading a piece of parchment, his lips quivering with every word. Grand Maester Pycelle, or one of his servants, must have visited. He could not recall ever being so oblivious to the goings on around him, especially in King's Landing where the very air made his hairs stand on end.

"Damn it all!" came a shout, followed by the sound of his desk shaking. Ned watched Robert stand from it, moving toward the fireplace. "Tywin's cutting through the Riverlands like butter. Ser Gregor is leading raids on the villages, setting fires, raping women and children. You sent Ser Beric after him?"

Ned nodded, "I did."

"He won't stand a chance." Robert moved back to the desk again, grabbing fresh parchment. "I may be the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, but the Martells hate me, the Tyrells still want a bloody Targaryen on the throne, and the Lannisters want to fight me. What does that leave me with? Four? No, the river lords are practically bending the knee to Tywin already. I'm king of half a kingdom, Ned, and for what? A fucking imp!"

There was a long moment of silence. Ned did not feel much inclined to answer Robert's ravings. Anything he said might put the man over the edge, given recent events.

"But you  _are_  king," he spoke slowly.

"Yes, Ned, I'm the fucking king. I can shout it all night and day, fuck my whores, and kill every blonde head I see in the Red Keep, but Tywin Lannister is still going to carve his way through your wife's people." Robert sat down, putting his head in his hand. "Do you know how many people wanted Tywin to be king? A lot more than me, that's for sure."

Ned looked back to the fire, his thoughts dark. "Then he must be held accountable before they start thinking that way again."

Robert snorted. "I call for Tywin to receive the King's Justice, and then we  _will_  be at war."

He had to wonder what this was then.

"Seventeen years, Ned. Seventeen years of peace, or close to it, and I hated every second of it." Robert glanced over at him, looking as if every one of those years was taking their toll at that very moment. "Does it make me a terrible king to want to say 'fuck it, let's go to war'? I want to kill something, Ned, not some bloody animal, a person. I want to hold his life in my hands and say 'no, not today.'"

Ned could only shrug. Maybe it did. Maybe it didn't. The fact that Robert had resisted doing so thus far was probably a good sign, but he was hardly someone to give advice about anything anymore.

He took a breath. "I sent Myra to Dragonstone."

The silence was thick, and Ned could practically hear Robert blink.

"You did what?"

Robert was standing again, walking toward the fireplace with a curious look on his face.

"I asked her to get a message to your brother. We need him to return here, now more than ever."

"That wasn't what I meant by sending out a rider, Ned!" Robert shouted. "Do you really think Stannis is more likely to listen to a girl than his own king? He's a Baratheon! We're as stubborn as they come."

"He has answers about Jon and-"

"Oh, not this again!" Robert stepped closer, looking like a looming giant even to him now, though he could never recall him being that much taller. "Jon died, Ned. He was old and he died. Stop thinking everything is a damn conspiracy."

"Then why did Stannis leave as he did?" Ned asked. Surely Robert had noticed something, anything. Even drunks were sober on occasion.

"Because my brother is a cunt who can barely stand the sight of me. Trust me, the feeling is mutual."

Ned shook his head. "Stannis is not a man to abandon his post. He knows something, and he feared for his life. I think someone killed Jon Arryn, and he knows who."

"And let me guess, you suspect the Lannisters?" Robert asked, and Ned was silent just long enough to answer the question. "Seven hells, Ned, I thought I hated the blonde bastards, but you're taking the prize for vindictiveness. The Lannisters didn't kill Jon…and they didn't try to kill your boy."

At that, Ned blinked. He took a good, hard look at the man he had called his friend for so many years. They had been fostered together, gone to war together, mourned together, and then in a few days, each had ruined so much. He had feared it was only the beginning.

"What do you mean?"

Robert took a breath, thinking long and hard. "That tourney you mentioned, and the dagger. It didn't belong to Tyrion Lannister."

Ned found himself holding his breath, thinking back to the words Jaime had spoken to him before he left for the Eyrie. He had told himself the man was lying, that he would say anything to free his brother from incrimination, but there had been a voice in the back of his mind telling him the man was right, and that everything he had been fighting for was a lie.

"It belongs to me, Ned."


	16. The Capture

**Jaime**

It was raining. Again.

His armor, once polished and pristine, was covered in mud, blood, dents, and scrapes. It looked duller somehow, but not so much that he did not look like an enormous, glittering target every time they attempted to hide in the brush. Tyrion and Bronn had taken to staying away from him altogether during those phases of their journey. He had thought to take the damn thing off, but his underclothes were poor protection against the weather of the Vale.

And he was, as Bronn so eloquently put, their fucking way out of this mess. A king's man on the king's business. So, it was best to look the part.

Not that the mountain clans had cared whose armor he wore.

Thunder clapped overhead. He could feel its rumble in his chest. They had discussed seeking shelter at some point, but had quickly decided being struck by lightning and hail both would be preferable to another hour in the Vale.

Tyrion was right. Their father should set the whole damn thing ablaze.

_Burn them all!_

Jaime blinked, and fought the urge to grab his sword.

"Well, this should make for an interesting story," Tyrion grumbled from somewhere behind him. "The Lannister brothers  _walking_  into the encampment. Father will be so pleased. 'Lannisters don't walk. We have people to do that for us.'"

This one-sided conversation had gone on for nearly an hour, starting somewhere with a joke about a jackass and a honeycomb, before spiraling into nonsense and mockery. His brother always did love the sound of his own voice, especially when he was bored or nervous. The Vale had provided them with an abundance of both.

Bronn shuffled over, looking no worse for wear, though he might have sprouted another deep line on his face. "You going to attack me if I run your brother through with my sword?"

"I'll pay you to do it," Jaime replied.

"Bronn, how could you?" Tyrion asked, mockingly wounded. "I thought we were friends."

The sellsword shrugged. "Well, you know what they say about friends."

"That they can't be bought?"

"Oh…is that how it goes?"

He was going to kill both of them.

There was another rumble. The rain came down harder.

Somewhere in King's Landing, Cersei was waiting, warm and dry and everything else he could ever need. Thinking of her was a better motivation to get through the muck than vengeance. Lysa Arryn could rot alone in her tower if that meant he would get to see King's Landing faster.

But that was not where he was headed.

He never could think clearly when angry.

Cersei was alone with Robert while their father was on the warpath. If the king was smart, he'd use her as leverage and stay behind his walls. But Robert Baratheon was not smart. He was barely functional; he was a drunk, prideful man who would face his father on the open field, if only for the chance to say once and for all that Tywin Lannister had one man to fear in Westeros.

The thought of him actually attempting to defeat the Lannister army might make his father almost smile.

Almost.

A proper Hand would advise against that course of action, but Ned Stark was a different story. They were all traitors to him. He'd probably join Robert on the battlefield, their broken trust healed by the unifying power of hating his family.

Even if it  _was_  destined to fail, the campaign would take months at least. Any number of things could happen during that time. He could be anywhere across the Riverlands, while his sister was sealed behind the walls of the capital, a place he might not ever be able to return to.

He should have just taken the damn ship back.

"Father must hate this," Tyrion continued, a slight skip in his step despite how difficult the long walk must have been on his legs. "Having to go to war for me. I don't know if he's angrier that I was taken or that Lady Stark made him have to be a good father for once."

Something thrummed deeper in his chest than the thunder. A lie a young man once told his broken-hearted brother, because obeying his father was the right thing to do, because the truth was a terrible thing.

For a man who hated the game, he carried far too many secrets.

"I don't know about that," Jaime replied after a pause, glancing over his shoulder. "I think father wanted another good war before leaving his legacy in this hands of…us."

It was so easy to picture the disappointment on his father's face.

Tyrion snorted. "I'd hardly call pillaging villages a war, but to the victor goes the spoils, and the mark on history."

The group fell silent then, with nothing but the patter of rain and the squelching of their boots on the muddy roadway to keep them company. Over time, the mountains had begun to ease into hills, their abrupt angles softening to rolling curves that hugged the high road on either side. The trees were thinning, lessening the chances of another ambush. He thought perhaps if the clouds weren't so low, he could see the Trident in the distance, but that may have just been wishful thinking on his part.

What he  _did_  see was a steadily approaching group of men, perhaps seven in all, on horseback. They wore no particular colors and bore no sigils. There were no helmets among the lot of them, and barely half the group even had leather armor. They looked more like farmers than warriors, but were still armed with swords and bows, and upon noticing their ragtag group, they picked up their pace.

_Seven hells, what now?_

Jaime stopped. "I don't suppose you have any sellsword friends looking for you."

Bronn responded by drawing his knife and tucking it into his sleeve.

Right.

Within moments, the riders surrounded the three. The two archers of the group, one a boy scarcely bigger than his bow, circled behind them. Their arrows were already nocked. This was not about to end well for anyone.

"Hullo there!" called out a man. He was one of the few in leathers, and the only one who didn't look about ready to draw his weapon on them. That made him the most dangerous of the bunch. "Bit of a strange sight, travelers on the high road without horses. Dangerous idea, that. Run into some kind of trouble?"

He smiled. His teeth were browning.

"One could say that," Jaime replied, eyeing the man to his left. His horse was the biggest, if only because he was the fattest of the lot. He held a mace in his hand and was staring at the crest on his armor.

"Aye, them wildlings don't take kindly to anyone. Think the Vale is theirs, and I'd hafta agree on that one."

The fat one was muttering something to the skinny man next to him. Bronn had stepped between the two riders on his side, and was measuring both of them up. Tyrion looked like he regretted ever leaving the Wall.

"Name's Tobin," the leader offered. He nudged his horse forward, until the damn thing was nuzzling Jaime's armor. "And you are?"

Jaime raised an eyebrow. "Edd. This is my brother, Duncan…"

Behind him, he heard Tyrion suppress a snort. He supposed quickly naming him after Ser Duncan the Tall was a bit much.

"…and Bronn."

The sellsword gave him a look. Jaime could not help but shrug. He was a knight, not a liar; he should have let his brother do the talking.

"No, you ain't," the fat man croaked. He looked to Tobin. "That's Kingsguard armor."

He had a feeling this wouldn't be the last time he regretted keeping the thing on.

Jaime shook his head. "No, I received this not long ago. A gift from the Lady Lysa for dutiful service."

Tyrion looked like he wanted to strangle him.

"That ain't no gift," replied the man, poking him in the shoulder with his mace. "King came to my village once. Fucked my sister's brains out. Men in your armor stood outside my home half the night."

And once again, Robert's cock had ruined everything.

With his lie broken, Jaime really couldn't help himself. "I don't seem to recall King Robert having a taste for cows, but we all get a little desperate sometimes."

The man thought about it for a full second before raising his mace in the air with a shout.

Tyrion stepped in front of him at that moment, waving his arms frantically. "Wait, wait, my good man! Please! You don't want to do that!"

"And why not?" the man asked, defiant, but still he lowered the weapon.

"Trust me, I'm doing this for your benefit, if not ours as well. Neither of us want to see my brother dead," Tyrion continued, his eloquent oratory making his words sound both appealing and threatening. "It wouldn't end well."

Tobin nodded, his hands still nowhere near his sword. "He's right, you know. Only one man in the kingsguard has an imp for a brother. This is the Kingslayer, Jaime Lannister, makes that one Tyrion, and you…"

The sellsword, who had since found a sword sitting very close to his neck, only shrugged. "I'm still Bronn."

"You Lannister boys are pretty popular where I'm from," Tobin continued, edging his horse between the group. "That lion of yours was the last thing most people in my town saw, 'fore your father burnt our homes to the ground. S'pose we were lucky though.

"Ethon over there…" He pointed to the boy, who was gripping his bow tighter. "The Mountain That Rides came to his village. Only he survived. Doesn't talk much now. Can't imagine what he saw."

Jaime felt his hand moving toward his hilt. It did not take a smart man to realize reason was not going to work against these men. Vengeance was a powerful motivator, and a blinding one.

"Neither can I," Tyrion continued, ever the diplomat. Of course, not being much of a fighter did that to a man. "It is wrong, what has happened to you, to all of you, but when Lady Catelyn Stark took me her prisoner, she declared war on House Lannister. But perhaps, now that I am free, I can convince my father to cease hostilities."

It was very difficult for Jaime not to laugh at that. Tyrion seemed to sense that, glancing his way briefly.

"If you help us return to his camp, I can even see to it that all of you are rewarded handsomely."

Tobin appeared to consider his brother's proposition, rubbing his beard. "Never was a rich man. None of us were, but we had enough to keep our families fed. But they're gone now, all of them. Tell me, what use is gold now?"

The man made a move Jaime didn't like. He drew his sword in an instant, ready to defend his brother, but almost as quickly something struck his hand, cutting a jagged, bloody line along his thumb and knocking the sword from his grip. Jaime hissed, turning around to see the boy, Ethon, staring at him, another arrow already nocked and drawn.

"Next one's yer eye," the boy mumbled, his voice still high-pitched.

Tyrion took a deep breath, holding his hands out in a calming gesture. "My brother is here by royal decree. King Robert is expecting him back at the capital. Delaying us is treason."

The fat man snorted. "Lot o'good the king's done us. Riverlands are burnin', and he's sittin' pretty in his castle getting drunk."

Tobin nodded. "We were off to see the Lady Arryn for assistance, but it seems to me she won't be much help now. No matter. There are plenty of other lords who'd like to see justice."

He nodded, and swords were drawn. Jaime watched the tip of Tobin's hovering near his eye, before glaring up at the man. He worked to memorize his face, every detail from his rotting teeth to the scar just above his left eyebrow.

"Tie up the Kingslayer. Kill the other two."

Jaime stepped between his brother and numerous blades, while Bronn quickly drew his knife, preparing for a fight. "You don't want to do that."

"Why?" The fat man asked. "Your father gonna burn our homes again?"

"No, but he'll never know how I was taken," Jaime replied. Whenever diplomacy failed, bribe a man. Coin was not the only way. A man's ego could get a person far. "Imagine, the great Tywin Lannister, his favorite son, taken captive by farmers. What a blow that would be to him, knowing the men he attacked got their revenge."

There were nods among the group. They were interested, except for the boy. He looked ready to kill everyone.

"Now, none of you are going to get into my father's camp, but Tyrion? He can tell your tale."

Tyrion nodded. "Yes, I'm very good at this sort of thing. My father will know of the men who ruined his…legacy."

Tobin looked around the group, before nodding. "Tell your father: he burns more villages, we'll burn his precious son."

Jaime couldn't find the will to look intimidated by the group. Mostly, he was deciding how he could kill them all slowly when the night came and their guard fell.

He locked eyes with Tyrion. They couldn't exchange words, but they did not need to. One subtle nod to one another was all they needed. They would see each other again.

His brother and Bronn were allowed to leave then. He watched them take off through the brush, until the last remnants of movement were gone.

Looking up to the fat man, Jaime smirked. "Sorry about the whole cow thing."

The man brought the back end of the mace down on his head, and the world went black.

* * *

**Ned**

He had been sifting through a book, which he could not name for the life of him, reading but not retaining anything, when a shrill, angry voice pierced the door.

"I am the Queen, and I will not be denied entry by anyone!"

Ned sighed. He had hoped that Robert could contain the situation, but he knew that was about as likely as Tywin Lannister deciding he did not like war and returning to Casterly Rock. Still, he thought to at least have some warning.

He closed the book, rubbing his face before calling out. "It's alright. Let Her Grace in."

The words had barely escaped his throat when Cersei burst through the doors into his solar, a vision of Lannister red and gold, possessed with all the fury of a Baratheon. Her queenly façade had been discarded, replaced by a mother who had been wronged, and woe to all who stood in her way.

Gods help him.

"This is treason!" she shouted, green eyes boring into him.

Ned stood and nodded to the guard outside the door, waiting until the door was safely shut before continuing.

"Pardon, Your Grace, but short of selling the realm to slavers, what the king commands is hardly treason."

Her eyes narrowed. A weaker man might have been cowed. Ned did not think himself necessarily stronger, but he was a married man, and his wife was far more terrifying than Cersei Lannister when she wanted to be.

"Don't think I didn't hear your voice in the orders. First, your wife takes my brother, and now you would have Robert imprison his own son!" Cersei yelled, putting her hands on his desk.

Ned sighed. He and Robert had fought long and hard over the issue, but both had easily come to the conclusion that Joffrey had been the one to send his father's blade away with the catspaw, especially after Robert's confession that he may have spoken about death being preferable to an incapacitated life. He had thought to let that hang over Robert for some time, but Ned knew his childhood friend; he was never one to shy away from saying what he meant, and in truth, he had not thought his children were present.

"Your son has been confined to Maegor's Holdfast. It's hardly imprisonment."

"The Red Keep is his home, and he cannot go where he pleases! The guards won't even allow him to speak to me! He is the crown prince!"

He took a deep breath, taking care with his words. "The crown prince your son may be, Your Grace, but the king and I have every reason to believe that he has committed a crime. Would you prefer we throw him in the dungeons until his father decides what is to be done?"

Cersei became still so suddenly, Ned thought she was about to faint, but she only appeared to be thinking. He could see her reining the anger in, something her husband had never learned to do. Her hands slipped off the desk, clasping in front of her; her shoulders straightened and the composure returned to her face.

"Is this why you sent Jaime away? To keep him from defending his family?" she asked, quietly. "To keep him from stopping you?"

Ned felt anger for the first time at her accusations. "Your husband sent him away to save your brother, and to keep him from murdering me. Should he have done the same for you, Your Grace?"

He knew he had said too much, and the look on Cersei's face confirmed it. She glanced briefly at the book on his desk, and he thought her lips twitched.

And then she was gone, a blur of red retreating from his solar.

Ned sighed again. When this was over, he was going to step down, but there was a sinking feeling deep inside that told him he might not even make it that far.

"Yorick," he called out. The guard entered his room, and Ned took a moment to appreciate the Stark sigil on his armor. "Arrange passage for my daughters to White Harbor on a ship, and keep quiet about it. Don't even tell the girls until it is ready."

"Yes, milord," the guard replied with a bow of his head, departing just as swiftly as he entered.

With the room empty again, Ned looked down to the book he had been reading.  _The Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms._  It was the book he had gone to see Grand Maester Pycelle about long ago, before everything had fallen apart before his eyes. It seemed the volume had finally been delivered to him, and he had only started flipping through to appear occupied, while his mind wandered over everything.

But recalling the look Cersei gave the book, Ned decided to look through it more thoroughly. He turned the pages with great care, given that many appeared to be rotting with age, but there appeared to be nothing of great value to the writing. It was a well-documented record of births and deaths in all the great houses, no more and no less.

Still, something about it kept him turning the pages, until he found himself at House Baratheon. He looked through generations of babes born with black hair, until he reached Robert's children.

Golden-haired.

He blinked, and read the parchment again and again, attempting to find some hidden meaning in the words.

Golden-haired.

_The seed is strong._

And then he knew.

* * *

There was no member of the Kingsguard at Robert's door when he approached, and Ned thought perhaps that the king had gone back to his old ways, taking the to Kingswood when responsibility became too much for him, but the way his door sat open troubled the Stark. It was possible that Robert might have called them inside. He was always fond of sharing old war stories, but he did not hear the bellowing voice of the king from within.

Cautiously, Ned approached the door, inwardly cursing himself for coming alone. Of all the mistakes he could make in all the times.

A chair appeared to have been tossed and broken. Goblets were scattered, their contents spilled across the floor. There appeared to be no one inside, and Ned offered a small prayer that his first impressions were true.

But when he stepped in further, passing Robert's bed to glance at the other side, he spied a motionless form on the floor, lying in a gathering pool of blood.

Robert Baratheon, the First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, was dead.

A knife had been plunged deep into his chest, while there were various other wounds along his abdomen.

Ned knelt beside him, hands hovering over his body, but unwilling to touch. His childhood friend, who had betrayed him more times than he could count, but who had never left his side and loved him as a brother, was gone, and deep inside some final piece of himself was gone as well.

Who could have done it? Where was his kingsguard? The queen?

It was while he was lost in these confused thoughts, stuck motionless beside his dead friend, that the door to Robert's room burst open, and one of his guards finally entered. Ned dared to hope that it was Ser Barristan or perhaps Ser Arys that had come to check, but instead he was faced with Ser Boros, a man he had come to know as one with questionable loyalty.

He stared up at the man, fully armored and sword drawn, and knew then that this was all a trap.

He did not bother to dodge the fist that flew toward him.

* * *

**Myra**

She woke to darkness, and the distinct feeling that something was horribly wrong.

Sitting up in her bed, Myra watched the storm rage outside her window. Much like most places in the South, she had no shutters to close against the howling winds. It seemed like a poor choice to her, given the frequency of rain to the area, but at the moment, she did not mind the wind and the rain and the strikes of lightning so close to her. They seemed a much safer opponent to the forgotten beings in her dreams.

Slowly, she climbed out of bed, grabbing a robe and wrapping it about her body. She walked to where the rain fell just short of spilling into her room, though she could still feel droplets spray on her bare toes.

The way the rain danced in the hectic winds was mesmerizing in a way, and as she watched it, she attempted to piece together the mystery of her dream.

It was not of Robert, as they had been of late, which was a strange blessing in itself. But it did feel…darker, cold. She was not herself, and yet she was. In the distance a wolf howled and was suddenly silenced. Then five sorrowful ones joined the silenced call, and she did as well, feeling a great pain blossoming in her chest.

Myra smiled to herself, even laughed. It was silly of her, questioning the meaning of dreams. The last time she had done so, she was ten, and it was something about a flying cat and purple flowers, or some other such nonsense. There were more important things, real things, which needed her attention now.

Though she supposed it would not do much good so early in the morning. At least, she hoped it was morning. It was so hard to tell here.

Thunder boomed overhead, though it almost felt as if it came from the very bowels of the castle. The sound enveloped and deafened her, and not for the first time did she question how people could live in such a place.

_No wonder the Targaryens invaded_ , she thought.  _They probably wanted to be away from here._

She turned then, thinking to go back to bed, when she caught sight of her door wide open, and a little girl standing in the threshold.

For one moment, she was a little girl again, and Old Nan was reciting tales of ghosts that drove her to flee to her father's room in the dead of night.

Myra jumped and, for the most part, contained the scream in her throat. With a hand on her heart and the other on her mouth, she watched the young girl enter her room with the most apologetic look on her face.

"Sorry!" she spoke, somehow managing a whisper that could be heard above the din outside. "I couldn't think of a way to enter without scaring you."

The girl closed the door behind her before wandering about the room as if she owned the place. She had to be around Arya's age, with an equal amount of curiosity and lack of respect for the privacy of others, but rather than being put off by it, Myra found it charming. She missed her sister.

She smiled. "It's alright, though perhaps next time you could try introducing yourself when it isn't storming."

"It's always storming around here," the girl replied, picking up a comb. "And Father likes to put visitors in these rooms, the kind that make the storms the loudest. It unsettles them and makes them easier to talk to."

That  _did_  sound like something Stannis Baratheon would do.

"I take it that makes you Shireen?" Myra asked as the girl walked her way. The only daughter of Stannis, and seen by very few. She did not even leave Dragonstone when her father had gone to serve his brother in King's Landing.

The girl smiled as lightning flashed, highlighting gray scars on the left side of her face, stony, weathered things that looked so unnatural.

Something must have shown on her face, for Shireen's smile faded into a frown. "The maester calls it greyscale, and says I'm lucky to be alive. Mother doesn't seem to think so. She doesn't like others seeing me. If she knew I was here…"

Myra felt her heart breaking. She was reminded of Jon, and how her mother had always wished him gone. But Shireen was speaking of her own mother. A child should never have to experience something like that.

She smiled softly. "Well, I won't tell if you won't."

Shireen smiled again, and together the two sat on her bed. Myra lit the candle on her nightstand and covered them both with a blanket.

"So, Lady Shireen, what brings you to my room at this hour?"

The girl looked embarrassed. "I heard the guards talking about you. They said a girl stood up to him, not much older than me. How are you so brave?"

Myra hummed, looking into the young girl's face. She had her father's dark hair, but otherwise she could scarcely tell the girl was a Baratheon. "I don't think I'm very brave at all. I just did what I had to in order to keep my family safe."

"Is your family in trouble?"

"Yes, they are, but…I think we can get out of it."

She hoped.

They were silent for a moment. The storm outside had subsided, but the wind still howled in its wake. It sounded like screams, and made her far more uncomfortable.

"I don't sleep well," Shireen mumbled, wrapping the blanket tighter. "The guards think I'm still in bed, but I know when they change. I like to wander and forget about my dreams."

It seemed Dragonstone wasn't good for anyone. "I dreamed of wolves. They were howling and sad. What was your dream?"

"Dragons were coming to eat me."

Myra blinked. "My, that does sound terrifying. I think you've got me beat…but not my brother. He had a dream once that a giant wanted to eat him, but, of course, giants don't eat their meals raw. No, they had to cook him, and he told me every little detail."

Shireen giggled at the grimace on her face. It made her happy to hear the girl laugh.

"You have a brother?"

"I have a twin, and three spare brothers. Two sisters too."

The girl's eyes went wide. "I wish I had a brother. They all died."

Myra frowned. The little Baratheon did not seem able to catch any breaks in her life.

"Well, you can have one or two of mine. All they do is cause me trouble. Trust me, you're better off without them."

"That sounds like something Father would say."

Again, that did not sound unlike Stannis.

Shireen turned her body to face her. "Mother says you came from King's Landing. Did you meet my uncles?"

_Is that what you want?! To go to Rhaegar so he can fuck you how he pleases?! So he can make you his whore?!_

Myra nodded, her voice coming out as a whisper. "Yes, yes I…I did. Renly was very sweet and Robert was, um…"

The girl snorted. "Mother says Uncle Robert is an embarrassment, that Father would be a better king."

"Does she?"

Shireen nodded. "What about the kingsguard? Were they like the songs and the stories?"

" _Should have stayed out of it."_

"Yes…I…" Myra took a breath. The poor girl knew nothing of her troubles. She only wanted to know about the world outside of her home, which she only knew through stories she had read. But it was so difficult to oblige. "Frankly, I think their armor is…much less beautiful…in person."

The girl hummed. "And what about the Kingslayer? Was he there? I heard he's the prettiest man in Westeros."

" _I'm not going to hurt you."_

Suddenly, something broke inside, and Myra found she could breathe again. She even managed to chuckle. "I don't know. I suppose he might be, but he was…kind to me…"

_He tried to kill my brother,_  said a voice in her head.  _But then he went and saved me._

"Father doesn't like him."

Myra nodded, in a sort of daze. "I don't believe many people do."

"It sounds like you do."

Did it?

She had opened her mouth to speak, though no words had come to mind, when the door burst open again. A slightly disheveled Jory stood outside.

"My lady, you'll want to see this."

* * *

**Jaime**

He had regained consciousness tied to the back of a horse. After realizing their captive was awake, however, the riders decided it far more beneficial to group morale to bind his hands and drag him in their wake instead.

They had stripped him of his armor, leaving him in a light tunic, which had quickly become soiled over the several dozen times each one of his captors decided to kick him into the mud. They never appeared to tire of it, laughing until one complained about their sides bursting. It grew old very quickly, and he began to wonder how much they would laugh when his sword burst one of their sides.

When they weren't trying to drown him in the mud, Jaime was mostly left to his thoughts. He wondered how Tyrion fared and if Bronn had stayed with him. Though, if he knew sellswords, the prospect of having a Lannister in your debt was not something one just threw away. The man had already offered to be his brother's champion. A couple of farmers weren't about to scare him off.

As for the farmers themselves, he wondered where they might try to take him. He expected some minor lord's home, maybe Harrenhal if they felt lucky, but when they continued to follow the Trident even as it widened further and further, slowly becoming what they called the Bay of Crabs, he started to think they had a bigger plan in place.

Something he certainly was not going to enjoy.

Saltpans was what they called the town they came to, what little there was of it. A small castle overlooked the harbor, but otherwise the homes were ramshackle wooden things that looked ready to tip with the slightest breeze. More attention was given to the boats that dotted the harbor, the livelihood of the people.

Jaime felt the eyes of everyone on him. After all, it wasn't often a man was dragged through town, or so he hoped.

Tobin, whose horse Jaime was tied to, tugged on the rope, pulling the Lannister forward. A crowd had gathered in front of them.

"Say hello to the Kingslayer!" he shouted, voice travelling unreasonably far. "Ser Jaime Lannister, son of Tywin Lannister, the man who is burning our homes, our fields, our familes!"

A kick to the back sent Jaime to his knees, leaving him to look up at a dozen angry faces, cold and vengeful eyes. They would kill him, he realized, if someone made the first move; they would tear him to pieces right there in the road.

"We're going to make sure he gets his justice, but feel free to give your own along the way."

And then they were moving again, slowly, parading him through the town, the prize beast for all to get a look at.

The first thing they threw must have been a rock. It cut his forehead as it bounced off, leaving blood to trail down his face and into one of his eyes. Then there were all forms of food, breads and cheeses, rotting fish, there was a bucket of something, he didn't want to think of what. The smell told him enough. One particularly bold man rushed forward with a knife, but the fat rider with the mace rode his horse into him.

At least they were so focused on actual justice, they would not let him die.

Lucky him.

With the growing agitation and noise in the gathering crowds, the horses became anxious. One stray rock hit Tobin's steed in the hip, and the thing bolted.

Jaime had a brief moment to realize what was happening when the rope became taut, and suddenly he was flying through the air, landing back in the mud with a hard 'thunk,' only to continue being dragged through it. He hit rocks and nets and whatever other refuse was lying about. It did not take him long to realize the man was letting it continue, long after he had regained control of his animal.

When they finally stopped, with him coughing and wheezing up half the silt of the Trident, the crowds had fallen back. They were at the docks, standing before one particularly large and dark ship. Its sails were unfurled, ready to depart, but the sailors were too occupied watching the chaos below.

Unable, or perhaps unwilling, to stand just yet, Jaime watched Tobin dismount his horse and approach one of the men. He was not able to make out much of their conversation, but there was a lot of pointing in his direction.

He wondered if they were pirates or smugglers. Maybe he was being sold into slavery across the Narrow Sea, or sent somewhere where they hated Lannisters. He heard Dorne was always good for that.

His head throbbing in pain, Jaime could not be bothered to care much. It was too hard to focus on his anger, too much effort to stay focused. He closed his eyes, and tried to go somewhere else, to that place deep inside where no one would bother him.

It was easier this way.

" _That sounds like giving up."_

Jaime opened his eyes again, surprised to hear that voice in his head.

Something fell to the ground next to him. It was his armor.

Tobin pointed to it. "There is all the proof you need. Jaime Lannister of the kingsguard, and his armor."

Jaime focused on the armor, seeing his knife still attached to it. None of the other men appeared to have noticed, they were focused on what Tobin was saying or on the crowds behind them.

He reached out slowly, attempting to wiggle the blade free, but Tobin's conversation suddenly ended, and he noticed the movement.

"What are you doing? Miss your armor, Kingslayer?"

The man began to kneel down beside him.

Jaime almost laughed. The idiot could not have made it any easier.

In an instant, he pried the blade loose, and brought it swiftly across Tobin's neck, cutting deep into the flesh and spraying his blood across the road.

One of his men shouted, leaping off their horse and running at him. Jaime kicked out, tripping the man up. He stood then, ready to stab the man in the chest, when a sword flashed out of the corner of his eye. It was pointed at his neck.

"That was stupid of you," the sailor it belonged to said.

Then someone hit him, again.

It did not completely knock him out, but Jaime was only vaguely aware of his surroundings. Voices, the ship, the movement of the sea. He dreamed without sleeping, of golden hair and green eyes and a young woman wrapped in a white cloak.

He could not say how long he was on the ship; he never saw daylight nor food nor water. There was darkness and the smell of the sea, but eventually the door to whatever hold they had thrown him into opened.

Two figures dragged him out of the bowels of the ship, throwing him onto another dock, or it could have been the same one for all he knew. He looked up and saw two well-armed soldiers staring down at him, each wearing equal looks of disgust. They wore yellow over their armor, bearing a distinctive sigil.

"Stags," he managed to say, wondering when his mouth had become so dry.

One of the soldiers looked to whoever was behind him. "You told us you had Jaime Lannister."

"This is him."

The man looked down, then back up again. "You're full of shit, you know that?"

"Is this Dragonstone?" Jaime croaked, leaning toward the soldier, who took a full step back. "Is. This. Dragonstone?"

"No, it's the fucking Iron Islands," the other soldier snapped.

He ignored him, glaring at the other. "I am Ser Jaime Lannister, son of Tywin Lannister, one of Robert Baratheon's kingsguard, and I demand to see your fucking lord."

* * *

**Myra**

She watched a man enter the Great Hall of Dragonstone caked in mud and blood and grime. But even from the distant corner she had been allowed to stand in, Myra could recognize Jaime Lannister. Her breath hitched at the sight of him, and she bit her tongue before any of the thousand insults that came to mind escaped her mouth.

Whatever conflict she had felt earlier had utterly disappeared at the sight of him.

Stannis was, once again, standing by his seat, taking in the image of the broken Lannister with his usual stoic demeanor. Two men had accompanied Jaime, one a rather large man, the other much thinner. They were both dressed plainly.

"Ser Jaime Lannister, you are long way from King's Landing," Stannis started, looking at the others. "And in interesting company."

"I was ordered to the Eyrie by the king to retrieve my brother, Tyrion," Jaime replied, sounding wholly unlike himself, like he had not drunk properly for days.

_Good_ , cried a voice in her head. Myra closed her eyes and willed the thought away.

Stannis nodded. "And where is your brother?"

"Far away from here."

Myra watched the two stare at one another, something transpiring between them that she did not fully understand. Something to do with Jaime's secret, no doubt.

"Your brother is expecting my return," Jaime continued as Stannis stepped away from the dais and circled the visitors like some sort of vulture.

"If he is, then why didn't you take a ship back to King's Landing?" Stannis asked, not intrigued, just making a point. "You'd be a lot cleaner, and free of these fools."

Jaime said nothing to that.

"Who are you?" the Lord of Dragonstone asked the pair of wayward travelers.

The large man stepped forward. "Name's Roric, milord. We found the Kingslayer on the-"

"Jaime Lannister is an anointed knight of the Seven, and you will address him in the manner that is befitting of his title," Stannis interrupted, leveling a stare on Roric.

The room felt so much colder then.

"Y-yes, milord. We found…Ser Jaime on the high road with his brother. We brought him here for justice for our homes. For the Riverlands, milord."

Stannis put his hands behind his back, walking away. "So, you found a member of the kingsguard, on orders from his king, and decided to capture and torture the man for the crimes of his father, crimes that he himself could not have committed seeing as how he was nowhere near the Riverlands when you found him."

Myra thought she saw Jaime smile.

Roric blinked. "Yes…milord?"

She thought she saw Stannis' lip twitch, and for a moment believed he was resisting rolling his eyes. "Ser Davos, have these men locked up. The same goes for the crew of the ship. Send a detail of soldiers to wherever it is they came from, and round up any of those involved as well."

"At once, my lord," Davos replied with a bow of his head.

He had been standing right next to her, and at the sound of his voice, Jaime had turned in their direction. His gaze met hers and she watched the recognition slowly seep into his green eyes. She wondered what he saw in hers. Nothing good, she hoped.

"Someone get this man cleaned up," Stannis continued, returning to his seat. "And then find him a cell."

"What?" Jaime shouted, incredulous. Even Myra was taken aback by Stannis' words. "You said it yourself, I am on orders from your brother!"

"Orders which you were willfully disobeying. The king's law does not exist at your convenience," Stannis replied, taking his place in the lord's seat. He seemed a much bigger man then.

"Ser Jaime Lannister, I, Stannis Baratheon, Lord of Dragonstone and rightful heir to Robert Baratheon, the First of his Name, do hereby charge you with treason against your king and the realm."

And just like that, the course of their lives had changed.


	17. The Truth

**Sansa**

The day had been so beautiful.

Her father had already gone by the time she woke up. Arya as well, off to her dancing lessons. She and Septa Mordane had shared a quiet breakfast and agreed that an afternoon of sewing in the garden would be a lovely way to pass the time.

She had been wondering what to sew, perhaps a direwolf like Lady or maybe a lion. It would make good practice for the future, for all her princes and princesses.

No, a lion was not right. They would be stags.

Myra would know what to do. She would not make fun of her or chide her for being silly like Septa Mordane. Her older sister understood what she was going through. At least someone in the family had.

But she had to leave. Every time she asked her father why, he would just grow quiet. Perhaps she had done something wrong.

No, that did not sound like her sister.

The Tower of the Hand was unusually quiet that day, but Sansa hardly minded. She and Septa Mordane walked wordlessly into the main keep. In the distance, she thought she heard something. Shouts, maybe, the sound of a scuffle. During the tournament, it had happened often. Jory or other Stark soldiers would accompany them when the nights grew long, just in case, but most of the knights had left King's Landing.

Septa Mordane slowed, grabbing at her hand. "We should return to the tower, Sansa."

She looked so frightened; she was never frightened.

"What is it?" Sansa asked, not quite willing to move. "What's happening?"

"I don't know," the septa answered.

Just then, a man rounded the corner. He was armored in golden chains and a cloak, a City Watch soldier. His sword was drawn and bloody, and he was breathing heavily.

Sansa barely noticed Septa Mordane push her behind. She was too focused on the blade.

"Sansa, leave," the woman whispered.

But why? The City Watch was supposed to protect them. Someone must have attacked, and then had been sent to check on them. Maybe Joffrey sent them, or her father.

"What is going on?" Septa Mordane asked the guard. He did not answer. "I am a septa sworn to the Seven and I demand that you answer me."

The man said nothing. He walked right up to them, look her septa straight in the eyes, and shoved his sword through her abdomen.

She remembered the knight, Ser Hugh, and how he had died with a lance in his throat during the tournament; she remembered how proud she was, a highborn lady who did not faint at the sight of blood. It had almost been exciting.

Now blood covered her dress, her beautiful, green gown she had made herself. She had wanted it to match Joffrey's eyes.

The sword hovered just short of her hip. She could almost reach out and touch it, touch the blood. Septa Mordane's blood.

It vanished in an instant, and the old woman crumpled to the floor.

Sansa held a hand up. It was speckled with little droplets of red. Behind her shaking fingers, she could see the man, the member of the City Watch, glaring at her.

_Why did you do that, ser?_  she wanted to ask.  _You're supposed to protect us._

But she remained silent, the perfect highborn lady, even as his hand reached over to her. He could have easily crushed her skull in his palm. Perhaps he would.

"Please…" was all she managed to whisper.

He only smiled.

Then she heard footsteps, a grunt, and suddenly the man was howling. Blood was pouring from between his legs. He dropped to his knees, hand freeing her from its grip. Behind him stood a woman, her lilac dress stained in his blood, and anger raging in her dark eyes.

It was Syrena.

Syrena, the handmaiden who had taken care of her sister, and now her, who gossiped about the other lords and found the perfect dresses for her complexion. Hands that had deftly plaited her hair were now wielding a knife, the handle changing positions in her fingers with ease.

She grabbed man by the collar, pulling him back toward her before ripping off his helmet. He was an ugly man, old with pox scarred skin.

"You're a pathetic man," she hissed, grabbing what little hair he had. "Does killing septas make you feel superior?"

If he had a response, the Dornish woman gave him no opportunity. Her knife sliced across his throat, and she held him there as he twitched and gurgled.

Sansa watched the blood pulse from his neck, staining the tile before her feet. She had always thought red was a handsome color.

When his struggles cased, Syrena dropped the man and spit on his corpse. She moved swiftly over to Septa Mordane's body, carefully sidestepping the pools of blood. Kneeling, she spoke something softly, resting her fingers gently on the woman's eyelids, before looking in her direction.

"Did he hurt you?"

Sansa shook her head, or at least she thought she had. Syrena crossed the distance between them, gently touching her face with her free hand.

"Did he hurt you?" she repeated, softly.

"N-no," Sansa whispered, glancing down at Septa Mordane. "She didn't do anything."

"No, she did not," Syrena replied, grabbing her hand. "Come with me, quickly."

They ran back to the Tower of the Hand, while sounds of fighting and screams chased after them. It was getting closer.

She took them to her father's solar, barricading the door behind them. Sansa watched the handmaiden work, barely grasping it all. Her eyes began to wander around the room, half expecting her father to be inside, but there was no one. His desk was unoccupied, with only some book lying on top.

Only once had she ever been inside. She was yelling at her father about something; she could not remember what.

Syrena crossed the room, mumbling something to herself as she ducked under the fireplace. Her hand felt around the brickwork, before the sound of a bolt prying loose caught Sansa's attention. A doorway had opened where she stood.

Arya had always gone on and on about the secret tunnels in the Red Keep, how Maegor the Cruel had built them in case his enemies surrounded him. He had killed everyone involved in making them, she said, so that no one would know the secret but him.

The handmaiden returned to her, dusting the ash from her hands. "Whatever happens, whatever you hear or see, Sansa, I need you to never leave my side."

Sansa blinked. "What do you mean? I'm…I'm not going in there."

"Yes, you are."

"But I live here! I'm engaged to the prince! I can't just leave!"

"Joffrey is the king now," Syrena spoke, moving to glance out the window. She did not seem to like what she saw. "Robert Baratheon has been murdered, and your father has been arrested. Trust me, you do not want to be here for what happens next."

The king was dead? And her father arrested? That could not be true. Robert was her father's best friend. He should have been the one searching for the killer.

"My father would not have done that," Sansa replied, watching Syrena move back to her side. "We have to tell someone. I can talk to the queen. She'll listen to me."

The handmaiden laughed, though there was no humor in it. "This was the queen's doing."

"No…you're wrong. She was married to the king, why would she do anything?"

She knew the look Syrena was giving her, like a parent listening to their child's foolish ravings and not having the heart to tell them what was really true.

But this could not be true.

Could it?

Syrena put her hands on Sansa's shoulders. "I know you're scared…"

"I'm not scared," Sansa replied, almost offended by the notion.

"Then you are a fool," the handmaiden said. "Your guards are dead, your household is dead, and your father is long past anyone's help. I vowed to your sister that I would look out for you, and I do not break my vows."

Something crashed outside the door. Another man screamed.

Syrena grabbed her hand then, pulling her toward the fireplace. Sansa took a breath, hesitating for one last moment. This was her life, her future, she couldn't just run away from it.

Was this why Myra left?

With another rough tug, Sansa was pulled into the dark tunnel. She followed Syrena through a myriad of tunnels, some impossibly large to go unnoticed, and others no bigger than a child. But the handmaiden never lost her way, guiding Sansa through the darkness, away from the keep and everything she had ever known.

The day had been so beautiful.

* * *

**Jaime**

Well, no one could ever say Stannis was not a man of his word.

Before tossing him in the smallest, darkest cell Dragonstone's dungeon had to offer, Jaime had been cleaned of all the muck and piss and whatever other ungodly things that he had been dragged through, albeit not pleasantly. Buckets of cold water and brushes that scraped the skin off his back still got the task done. It was an entirely miserable affair, but he had more important things to worry about.

Like being a fucking prisoner…again.

Robert always had been a useless king. Even his own orders were not enough to help him. Even if he wasn't in the right, Stannis should have sent him back to King's Landing to deal with his punishment there, but the Lord of Dragonstone seemed to have another idea in mind.

Funny that he left King's Landing. He was doing a damn good job at acting like he belonged there.

Jaime glanced around at his surroundings, what little he could see. He only had a torch outside his cell for light, and the flame was dangerously low. There was a piss bucket in the far corner, resting far too close to the straw he assumed was bedding for comfort. Other than that, it was all brick. Wet, cold, impenetrable brick. There was not even an opening to see outside, only the bars that led to the rest of the dungeon.

There would be no escaping, not unless Robert interceded on his behalf, or his father managed to burn Dragonstone to the ground. Honestly, neither seemed very likely. Robert would have no way of knowing he was there, and if his father stepped too close to Dragonstone, then all the Baratheons would be united, providing a painfully difficult crusade for even Tywin Lannister. Family first, after all.

Resigning himself to his fate for the time being, Jaime moved to sit on the straw, which was only slightly less comfortable than the scratchy rags that passed as clothes they had provided. He leaned against the wall and sighed, trying to think of better things as he stared at the dying light.

He must have slept at some point, because when he opened his eyes, the torch had been relit, the flickering flame highlighting the features of a young woman standing just outside the bars. She just stared at him, eyes dark, and face frowning, full of that solemnness that the North was known for.

Myra Stark.

She did not speak; she only stared. Her eyes bore deep into him, and Jaime felt himself beginning to chafe under her scrutiny. There weren't many people who could do that to him. His father, certainly, and Cersei, but there was something about seeing that look in the eyes of a young woman who had been so fond of him not so long ago that made him uncomfortable.

His sister would call it pathetic. He was inclined to agree.

"Funny, running into you here," Jaime spoke after the silence became unbearable. "Thought you might have had your fill of Baratheons."

Something akin to regret welled somewhere deep in his chest at the sound of her sharp intake of breath. Still, she said nothing, and he worked quickly to push the feeling aside, conjuring pictures of his brother at the Vale. She dared look down on him after everything her family had put Tyrion through.

"Did you know about Tyrion?" he asked. A humorless laugh escaped his throat when Myra briefly looked down, all the answer he needed. "Of course you did. Why else would you be on this forsaken island? Nobody likes Stannis Baratheon, not even Stannis, but your father needed him."

He stood then, slowly working his way to the bars of his cell. Even in the strained light, he could see movement behind Myra. No doubt it was Jory, the loyal fool that he was, desperate to defend his lady's honor, whatever she had left.

"Your father, the honorable Lord Eddard Stark, needed his own daughter to secure an alliance, because his wife captured the wrong man. How noble of him, sending a child to do his work."

Face to face with one another, the space of the bars the only thing separating them, Jaime could pick out the subtle changes in her expression. How her eyebrows twitched, how her gaze dipped ever so slightly, and how her lips pressed slowly together, holding back whatever it was she had come to say. That mask of hers was far from perfect.

"Did Stannis tell you? Surely he's heard by now. Tyrion was facing trial by combat. He had some sellsword defending him. He asked for me, but your mother and aunt, in all their wisdom, denied him that right. Had I shown up any later, they might have given me the courtesy of watching my little brother fall to his death."

Something changed in her face just then. Jaime had seen the smallest impressions of guilt appear in the cracks that had formed in that mask of hers, and then all at once, it vanished, replaced by something else, something colder. Suddenly, he was reminded of when she confronted the king, how she stood straighter and reminded him of how tall she actually was. She was going to say something, and damned be anyone who tried to stop her.

"It's almost poetic, isn't it?" she finally spoke with a sad smile. Her voice was hollow and sounded wholly unlike her. "You pushed my little brother from the tower, only to find yourself watching yours in the same predicament."

She paused, and that brief time of silence felt like an eternity to Jaime. He could feel everything he had tried to protect falling apart, a colossal, crushing weight deep in his chest, burrowing its way to the pit of his stomach.

Somehow, he managed to keep his voice even. "Is that something else your father decided to tell you?"

"I came to the conclusion myself, after Lord Stannis told me about the king's children," she replied, taking a breath and looking at her feet. Her hands were shaking. "How they're yours."

Jaime laughed, though there was no mirth in it. "You heard it from the man who stands to gain the Iron Throne if Robert doesn't have any trueborn heirs. I had always heard the Northmen were gullible but this-"

"Stop it."

She did not yell, not like with Robert, but there was something in the tone of Myra's voice that brought Jaime's to a halt.

Her lower lip began to tremble.

"I may not be very good at this highborn game we're all supposed to play, but neither are you, Jaime Lannister." He watched her take a breath, closing her eyes to hold it all in as that mask of hers began to crack again. "You think you're so clever, pretending you don't care, that all the world is something for you to slander or ignore because you're a Lannister, you're the Kingslayer, and no one in their right mind is ever going to think more of you than that. But you do care, I've seen it, and I've also seen how the more uncomfortable you are, the more you try to antagonize people, so don't you dare play that game with me."

Jaime blinked, vaguely aware that his mouth was hanging open. Some part of him, a small, desperate piece, wanted to lash out as he was prone to, playing right into her hands from the corner she had driven him to. But how had she? She did not know everything about him, far from it, but in one, anger-induced tirade, Myra Stark had admitted to knowing more about him than a great many people who had known him for much longer than her. He could not even pretend that she was wrong, that she hadn't burrowed deep under his skin and gotten to him; he was still desperately trying to convince himself that she had not been there already, staring at him with those eyes that always wanted to help.

Those eyes weren't there now, though. They were dark as she continued. "Say it."

There was that tone again, willing him to obey.

Jaime sighed. "I was the one who pushed the boy from the window."

The sound she made at hearing the truth was inhuman. It broke whatever mask she had left, allowing the tears to flow freely down her face.

"He is nine years old! All his life, he only wanted to be a knight, one of the kingsguard, just like you, and you took everything from him!"

Her voice had cracked as she shrieked at him, like a mother's wail. It was strange to him. He had heard the screams of the dying, the shouts of men in unceasing pain, curses and damnation from those who thought him no more than a soiled knight, the Kingslayer. Every action he had ever taken had only led to fear and anger, things he had hardened himself against long ago, but this was the first time he had been confronted with despair caused by his own hands, not from loss of men or a battle or limbs, but the deep-seeded misery that only came from causing harm to something truly loved.

He remembered the day he had pushed Brandon Stark out the window. It was as clear as the woman standing before him. Through all the commotion, as he attempted to distract people by calling for aid while Cersei had snuck away from the tower, someone shouted above the others. The crowd had parted, revealing Myra, pale and passed out in the mud, while a soldier tried to shake her awake.

It was only then that he realized the severity of his actions.

Avoiding everyone from then on had been easy. The royal family had been far removed from the chambers of the mourning, and he had managed to steer clear of all the others until they had left Winterfell. No one expected Jaime Lannister to give apologies for what happened to a child. That was not what he did, and he had been alright with them thinking that.

But now he could not even look away. He did not know what to do, and he did not know how much longer he could take it.

Myra, however, seemed to be done crying. She wiped her face with the sleeves of her dress and sniffed. "You know, I never thought Tyrion was guilty. I defended him before my father. I even defended you; I trusted you above everyone else in King's Landing."

Jaime closed his eyes. He just wanted her gone.

"Then you're a fool," he said.

She nodded, not saying anything, not even looking at him. Picking up her skirts, she walked away from his cell, the echo of her footfalls growing fainter and fainter. He barely noticed, too focused on that all too familiar stabbing pain in his chest.

It was only after he heard the sound of movement that he remembered they had not been alone. Jory had remained behind, and had now taken his turn to stare Jaime down. Even with his sword drawn, he was not nearly as intimidating. In fact, the scowl on his face made the pain all but vanish, and Jaime felt more like himself again, able to face this particular enemy.

Jory did not say anything. He only let his sword linger close enough that Jaime got the message: the only thing keeping him from death was the fact he was Stannis' prisoner.

And he had called himself pathetic.

Jaime took hold of the bars with both hands, resting his head between two. "You know…she's never going to fuck you."

The look on the man's face was more then enough to make him feel better about the whole ordeal.

But it was after Jory had left, when the torch had begun to dim again and the sound of the guards making their shift change had ceased, that his thoughts began to encroach on him again, wiping away that smug satisfaction he'd had too easily. He spent the evening thinking on little brothers, and what their older siblings would do for them.

* * *

**Ned**

He awoke once to darkness, and the pounding of his head. Someone was shouting in the distance, and then everything faded again.

The second time, it was still dark. He managed to blindly feel around for a bucket to empty his stomach into before losing track of time once more.

By the third time Ned Stark opened his eyes, a light had filled the space. It was neither sunlight nor moonlight, but the flame of a torch that had been lit. He watched the flames flicker as his eyesight struggled to get a grasp on things. The torch refused to stay in place, dancing around his vision until Ned closed his eyes again lest his stomach lose control.

He took long, deep breaths, regaining control of his body as he attempted to recall how he got into such a predicament. Glimpses of a bloody knife and the body of his friend managed to break through the pounding pain of his mind.

It was a cell, he realized. Probably the dankest, darkest, most hidden corner of the entire keep. Part of him was surprised he even made it this far, that he had not been killed on the spot, but another part figured this was still all part of the twisted plan, the trap that he had so foolishly walked into.

"I could almost pity you," a distinctly feminine voice spoke from outside his cell.

Blinking his eyes open, Ned turned his head. Though still difficult to focus on, there was no denying the blonde hair of the queen. She was dressed in the appropriate attire, something black, but it was too well designed, too immaculate for a woman in mourning.

_Probably made ahead of time_ , Ned thought, grimacing.

Cersei stepped closer, looking down with a sneer. "You were a strong man once. Still are, from what I have heard, and now here you lie, covered in shit and vomit like the common filth. It's almost painful to see how pathetic you've become."

Ned ignored her, using what little strength he had to push himself against he wall into a sitting position. His head swam for a few moments, but Cersei seemed more than willing to wait for him to speak. Every moment of pain probably brought her joy. Even before everything had happened, he had known that much about Robert's queen.

He opened his eyes, looking at her, staring her down as best he could. For all her faults and indiscretions, Ned had never expected this much from her. She might have been a Lannister, but Robert was the king, and the realm had not been torn apart and bloodied beyond recognition only to have the royal line shaken up once more. It was too high of a risk.

Yet she had done it.

And here she stood in the aftermath, the glowing widow, smug and basking in her would be victory.

"You had him butchered," he spat, remembering Robert and how strangely calm his face had been.

She actually smiled. "Butchered. What a strangely apt term. After all, if you marry a lion to a stag, how else could it possibly end?"

"He was the king!" Ned shouted, anger drowning out the pain that still coursed through his body.

"He was a drunken lecher who spent more time hunting boars than actually ruling the kingdom. Do you think Robert found the money for his armies? Do you think Jon Arryn single-handedly held King's Landing afloat while Robert fucked every whore within its walls? I held every decree, my words were in every letter. It was my guidance and patience that maintained the peace. The High Septon should have crowned me instead."

Ned snorted. "You committed regicide out of jealousy?"

"Jealousy? You would see it as something so pathetically simple." Cersei rolled her eyes. "I was more than willing to wait out Robert. At his rate, he did not have many years left. But then you arrived. Your daughter stole his attention, your wife stole my little brother, and then you threatened my children."

" _Your_  children," Ned replied. "Not his."

She smirked. "Thank the gods for that. Jaime is a much more suitable father. Talented, handsome, strong. My perfect half."

A silence fell between them. Cersei looked contemplative, but more peaceful than she had ever been since he had first seen her. It made his insides twist.

"I could have loved him once," she offered, playing with a strand of her hair. "After all, he was Robert Baratheon, the hero of Westeros, the king, and he would be all mine. Then as he took me on our wedding night, he whispered your sister's name again and again."

_I loved Lyanna._

_Promise me, Ned._

"Then he laid eyes on your daughter. My husband was an easy man to read, and I could see that look in his eyes. He thought his second chance at happiness had come, only now there were no Targaryens to ruin everything," she paused, looking over at him. "Had you actually managed to tell him the truth, he would have made her his queen, and while he fucked her over and over, drunk on his wine, calling out her aunt's name, you would only stand there and say 'It's an honor, Your Grace.' 'Very well, Your Grace.' 'How else might the Starks serve, Your Grace?' You should be grateful for what I did."

Ned closed his eyes, unable to bear the thought, or rather how accurate it might have been.

"That's the difference between you and I," Cersei continued. "I will protect my children, no matter who stands in my way, be it Stark, Baratheon, Targaryen. My children are all that matters in this world, and they will receive everything I have worked for."

She left him then, taking the one torch that had lit their conversation, burying Ned in darkness once more.

* * *

**Myra**

It was the first time she had been allowed to leave the keep. Perhaps it had been the break in the weather, or the different guards who stood by the doors, but they had let her depart for the cliffs without so much as a look in her direction when the sun rose that morning.

She had managed to leave without Jory by her side, though that was because she had sworn up and down she was not about to do anything that day, maybe write a letter or stare out the window as she had been prone to do. Lying was never something she enjoyed, but it had come to her much easier than she anticipated. It had been for some time, she supposed.

Free from the confining walls of the keep, Myra felt as though she could breath for the first time in days. Ever since she spoke to Jaime, her thoughts had not been able to leave her alone. She was angry at him, but somehow more angry at herself for letting him get to her. Crying like a pathetic little girl who needed a hug was not the way she wanted to confront the man who had crippled her brother, but what little walls she had built crumbled pathetically before him.

Some part of her had still hoped he was innocent, but upon hearing the words, she felt as though her very foundation had crumbled.

How dare he have so much power over her. How dare she let him.

He was right. She was a fool.

Myra looked up at the horizon, watching the ever-steady line, as the waves seemed to touch the sky. There was not a cloud to be seen, not a single wave that looked threatening. Gulls had taken to the air and in the distance, she thought a fishing boat or two could be seen drifting.

It was hard to believe this place was still the fearsome Dragonstone, though she knew if she turned around, the grotesque castle that made sailors steer clear of the area would be staring her down. Perhaps that was why the villagers chose to live on the far end of the island.

She wondered if the day was this fair in King's Landing. It probably was. The days liked to be warm and welcoming, if only because the people were quite the opposite. Arya would be playing with her swords again. Sansa would be sewing or taking a stroll through the gardens. And her father…

Her father would be trying to sort things out, while still waiting on word from her.

Myra took a deep breath. Stannis capturing Jaime Lannister would no doubt…complicate things. She was surprised he had even done so. The man had said himself, it would be difficult to prove Jaime had done anything. There's was probably more she did not know about. Not every Baratheon was ready to pour his heart and soul out to her.

She really was sick of Baratheons.

The wind made it difficult to hear the footsteps, but Myra managed to pick them up just as Davos came by her side. She had grown to like the man in the days that had passed. Her father would have as well, smuggling aside. He had paid his price and served more faithfully than many highborn men, and had a sense of honor that she had grown to miss. Stannis certainly had his honor too, but unlike his lord, Davos was not lacking in personality. He even had a sense of humor.

"I'd not recommend coming out here alone, my lady," Davos spoke, his accent thick. From Flea Bottom, he had told her. "The breeze can catch your dress just right, and then you're in for an unpleasant trip to the sea."

Myra glanced over the edge of the cliff, smiling to herself for the first time in days. "Is that why the guards let me leave? Hoping I'd disappear with the wind?"

Davos shook his head. "Begging your pardon, my lady, but I know for a fact that there are a good many guards who are hoping you don't disappear any time soon."

Unable to help herself, Myra laughed. Perhaps too hard, but she was in desperate need for some sort of happiness. Dragonstone had been nothing but misery for her. Perhaps Winterfell was the only place where she was allowed to smile freely and often.

Calming, she looked back to the horizon. "Is King's Landing this way?"

The Onion Knight nodded. "You've a good sense of direction, my lady."

"Oh, I doubt that very much. I know where the sun rises and sets, and that's about it."

"Still a good deal more than many lords and ladies I've spoken to."

"And how many have you spoken to?"

"Not many, I admit."

She smiled to herself again, enjoying a conversation that had no requirements of her, no baggage or weight resting on her shoulders. Just two people making small talk and enjoying the morning.

It was when Davos began to shift uncomfortably next to her than Myra knew it had all been too good to be true.

"My lady…there's news from King's Landing."

* * *

Myra Stark thought she had known anger. She thought she had suffered real betrayal. But the letter in her hands was proof that she truly knew nothing that happened in the world, and that she was only just getting a taste of the cruelty that awaited her.

She stormed through the halls of Dragonstone, too angry to speak or even think; she knew she had to go to the Great Hall, she had to speak to Stannis, but what words she would use were at a loss to her. Making it up as she went seemed good enough for her. Stannis seemed to approve of getting straight to the point and she was too fed up with everything to give a damn about anything else.

Jory stepped beside her at some point, his longer legs easily able to keep pace with her. She handed him the parchment without a word, allowing the queen's words to do all the talking for her.

"…King Robert murdered…Lord Eddard arrested…Your father would never do such a thing!"

Myra grabbed the letter back. "No, this is Cersei's doing."

"Why would the queen murder her husband?"

She suppressed a snort. Anyone who spent more than five minutes alone with the two could figure out that answer fairly quickly.

"My father must have figured out what Jon Arryn did. Robert either knew or was about to. It's the only explanation."

"This means Joffrey is king."

Now she did snort. "He's not my king."

There were no guards when she approached, but the doors of the Great Hall had been swung wide anyway. Gathered inside were at least a hundred people, perhaps more. Most appeared to be guards, while a few looked to be minor lords, those who had been on the island when they first received word. She wondered how long they had decided to delay telling her. It would not have been very hard.

At the center of the room stood the red woman she had seen before. In the sea of dark colors, she stood out like fire, tall and proud, her voice booming over the space like the thunder of their storms. Her hands held a crown, golden in color and shaped with little flames, and at her feet, Stannis Baratheon had kneeled.

"I declare Stannis Baratheon, the First of his Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm." She placed the crown on his head and knelt as Stannis stood. "Long may he reign."

The Great Hall boomed.

"LONG MAY HE REIGN!"

She looked at Jory, and he looked at her. They both knew Stannis was the rightful king, yet neither one of them felt inclined to bend the knee.


	18. The Pawns

**Myra**

They had waited for the Great Hall to clear. Given that Stannis was not prone to excessive bouts of gossip, the wait was not long. Men and women alike declared themselves to be at the service of the one true king and departed with little more than a nod in return. His brother might have made for a terrible ruler, but even Robert had the decency to accept loyalty warmly and with thanks. Stannis was all military bearing and little else.

The thought of the now dead king gave Myra pause as she waited. For all his faults, and there certainly was no shortage of them, Robert Baratheon did not deserve the end that was implied by the letter. And yet, the fact that he was gone made the memory of him slightly easier to bear. She did not want to know what that said about her.

Jory was fidgeting beside her. He'd never been an overly anxious man under the service of her father, but dark times and unwelcome surroundings did a lot of things to people. It seemed they were both eager to be rid of the place.

At last, the crowd parted, lords and ladies trickling away into distant halls of the keep, save for a handful. They looked on with curious eyes, wondering what the rightful king and the daughter of a supposed traitor could even speak about.

The taste of bile rose in her throat.

Stannis Baratheon was seated on his throne, the crown securely on his head, with the red woman standing on his right. To his left was Ser Davos, watching with sympathy only a father could possess. Certainly not all fathers, though. After all, Stannis had a child, but he was made of solid stone.

Myra cleared her throat, the anger she once possessed having cooled during her wait. "My Lord, I-"

"His Grace is the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, child," the woman interrupted with an air of superiority that felt right at home in King's Landing. "You will address him properly."

"An honest mistake, Lady Melisandre," Davos replied on her behalf, giving the woman a none too kind glance.

A foreign name to go with her foreign accent. She had heard of the red priests from across the sea. Thoros of Myr, who had competed in the tourney, was one. Perhaps this woman was another. Myra had to wonder how a man as straight-laced as Stannis Baratheon fell into her company.

Stannis gave a heavy sigh then, as though this were only a hint at what went on between his advisors. It was the most human thing she had seen him do.

"Your Grace," Myra started again, looking pointedly at Melisandre. "My father needs your help, now more than ever."

"According to King's Landing, Eddard Stark is the reason my brother is dead," Stannis replied, leveling a hard look on her. "Tell me, why shouldn't I leave him to rot?"

Jory tensed, but held his tongue.

Myra took a breath. "Your Grace, you and I both know my father did not murder Robert Baratheon."

"Do we?" Stannis asked, standing then. "Clear the room."

Guards along the wall moved swiftly and silently, herding out whatever lords and ladies remained in the chamber. When they had finished, only Stannis and his advisers remained, as well as Myra and Jory.

"The Lannisters are not fools. If they claim that your father murdered my brother, they have something to use against him. The fact that he is being put to trial instead of the Kingsguard outright executing him is a testament to that."

Myra could not help but glance at Jory. His gaze was cold, jaw clenched.

Stannis looked between them. "What do you know?"

She did not want to tell him. Uttering the words would be too much. It would put her in a place that she would never want Stannis Baratheon of all people to see, and breaking down in the middle of Dragonstone was not going to get her anywhere.

Jory, she noted, was staring down the supposed king. She was grateful for her guard's restraint. He'd have skewered Stannis twice over by now otherwise.

"She resembles young Lyanna, does she not?" Melisandre asked, stepping forward. "I have seen her face in the flames. Even now, the dead play a part in this world."

Myra looked to the red priestess, finding the woman's eyes on her. The way she looked at her sent a chill up her spine. She was examining her, like a hunter watching their prey, calculating every movement she made.

"The only thing to see in flame is fire, my lady," Jory spoke, his voice ice. "If you are seeing faces, perhaps the wine is too strong."

Stannis stood in front of Jory. "I'll give you the courtesy of one warning. Do it again, and I'll have your tongue ripped out."

"Your Grace," Myra said, stepping in front of Jory. "What your brother did is inconsequential. My father would never-"

"So Robert did do something." The Lord of Dragonstone looked her over. "My brother always was a weak fool. He spoke of Lyanna like she was one of the Seven come to life. When I met her, all I saw was a woman, and hardly the sort to start a war over."

He started to walk back to his throne. "Your father is beyond help. It is better that you consider him dead."

"Beyond help?! My father would declare you king, and you would let him rot in the capital!"

Stannis whirled around, standing on the dais so he was above all. "I am the king! By right and by blood! Whether I remain here or march on the capital by nightfall, Eddard Stark will still die in King's Landing, the only difference being how quickly the Lannisters decide to end it."

Myra felt her lip quiver. This was not how it was supposed to go. Her father had trusted her. She was to go to Dragonstone and get Stannis' help. Now she could not even help him when he needed her most. How useless was she?

"What of Ser Jaime?" she asked, desperate. "If you inform Cersei Lannister that you have her brother, perhaps my father-"

"What is it about my demeanor that makes you believe I am another Baratheon willing to fall for your charms?" Stannis interrupted, finality in his tone. Myra could say nothing as he sat once more. "Jaime Lannister will stand trial for his own crimes. He is not a piece to be bartered with."

Myra felt her shoulders slump, whatever hope she'd held onto dying. "Then it seems my presence here is neither desired nor required any longer. I'll sail for White Harbor at dawn, Your Grace. My brother will need me."

Stannis sighed then, as though loathing to speak again. "I cannot allow that."

She blinked. "Your Grace?"

"There have been other ravens, my lady," Ser Davos started, looking terribly uncomfortable as he spoke. "It appears you are wanted in connection to the murder of Robert Baratheon."

Melisandre raised her head higher, as though she must always look down on those she spoke to. "If you leave Dragonstone, you will be captured and returned to King's Landing to face trial alongside your father."

"So I am to be a prisoner?"

"You are a guest, my lady," Davos replied, though he did not seem entirely convinced of it himself.

"Guests are free to come and go as they please, ser," Myra shot back. "My brother will not look kindly on this,  _Lord_  Stannis."

Stannis' eyes narrowed to an incredible degree, and the temperature in the room seemed to plummet, but Myra stood firm against his glare. She was of the North, after all. A little cold was nothing to her.

When it became clear to her that the conversation was at an end, Myra took her leave, storming away in a flurry of skirts, Jory right behind her.

"Your brother is an untried boy a thousand leagues from here." Stannis did not raise his voice, yet it still caught up to her. "If he were wise, he'd bend the knee."

Myra said nothing as she made her way out of the Great Hall. She brushed past the lords and ladies who still stood curiously outside, ignoring their hushed tones and lingering gazes, no doubt in her mind that Jory was giving them a look or two of his own.

They continued in silence until the relative safety and privacy of her quarters in Windwyrm Tower. Blinded by rage at that point, Myra reached for Jory's sheath as he shut the door, drawing his sword and burying it in the first piece of furniture her eyes locked on to. The unfortunate piece was the trunk lying at the foot of her bed; the sword pierced the lid so deeply that Myra did not have the strength to remove it again.

Huffing, she turned back to Jory, whose wide-eyed gaze might have earned a laugh from her on any other day. "Sorry."

"Don't be, my lady," he replied, gripping the hilt. Of course he would extract the thing as if she had only cut cake.

She moved to the balcony, taking in the salty sea air. It seemed such a despicable smell now. She missed the cool, crisp scent of the northern lakes, and the cold air that would wander down from the Wall, fresher than anything she had smelled in the South. All she wanted to do was go home, and it seemed the whole world was preventing her.

"Your brother will have called the banners," Jory mused from behind her somewhere.

"He'd march the entire North to the gates of King's Landing if he could," Myra murmured. That was, of course, if he could get the northern lords to listen. The men were loyal to a fault, but to first gain that loyalty was an obstacle difficult for anyone. Robb didn't have their father to help him, nor their mother, and certainly not her. "He doesn't know I'm here, Jory. None of them do. All they knew was that I was returning home by the sea. I expect they think I've drowned, or worse."

"Give your brother credit, my lady," her guard replied, stepping onto the balcony with her. "The two of you have a knack of knowing when the other is in danger. He knows you're safe, I promise."

Myra smiled softly, though it was short lived. "I suppose he'll know I'm here soon enough. Wanted or not, I doubt the Lannisters would send a fleet searching this far north for me. For all they know, I'm already in White Harbor. No, Lord Stannis thinks he can use me to convince Robb to bend the knee."

Jaime may not have been a bartering piece, but it seemed that she was.

Jory frowned. "That seems unlike him."

"It does," Myra agreed. "But I wouldn't put it past that red woman. She has quite a bit of sway for some foreign priestess."

Even Stannis had to realize that despite his claim, he was hardly popular. Renly had been the charming younger brother, not him. He may have claimed to be honorable, but the Lord of Dragonstone would have to reduce himself to other tactics if he truly wanted his crown.

She looked to the sea, eyes wandering in the direction of King's Landing.

"They said nothing of my sisters, Jory."

Her father's captain of the guard said nothing. What could he say to comfort her in such a time? To the north, her twin prepared for war while her little brothers still waited for their mother, while to the south her father awaited trial and her sisters were pawns just as she was in this never ending political game. Her family was torn apart.

_The lone wolf dies…_

Hidden in her dress, as was the case most days, was the damned Valyrian dagger. Her hand gripped the hilt, a new determination rising in her.

She would leave this place and see her family again, if it was the last thing she ever did.

* * *

**Tyrion**

This was not how he wanted to see his father again.

After stumbling through the brush for nearly two days, he and Bronn had chanced upon a horse. Only one. And it appeared that that particular horse was the only one left in Westeros between them and his father, which meant that they rode into the red and gold camp of the grand Lannister army on the same saddle. Worse still was that Tyrion could not hope to stay on the horse without clinging to something. He tried the back of the saddle, but it hurt his spine, so he had to settle for the man seated in front of him.

Bronn had yet to stop laughing about it.

Tyrion would have preferred to walk into the camp, but the sellsword had insisted on anything but, kicking the horse into a gallop and leaving him to hold on for dear life. Seeing the looks on the soldiers' faces now, he might have preferred falling to his death.

"I'll never understand lords and their armies," Bronn mused as they trotted down the line of tents, nearly running over several soldiers without a second thought. "So close together and with all these bright colors. Practically begging to be wiped out in a single blow."

"And what do you propose is capable of doing that?"

The man might have shrugged. It was difficult to tell with all the bouncing. "Not sure. Someone'll think of something."

They rode straight up to the command tent. Tyrion suspected Bronn might have taken the horse straight inside, if doing so didn't mean catching his neck on the flaps. As such, Tyrion was relieved of that much embarrassment at least. He carefully dropped out of the saddle to the ground, groaning as his knees cried in protest.

What he wouldn't give for a hot bath, a good bottle of Dornish wine, and a whore or two.

He stood outside the tent for a moment, staring through the opening, though he was unable to make out anything. Bronn stood next to him, smirking.

A servant approached, somehow unsurprised by the sudden appearance of Lord Tywin's missing son. "Shall I announce you, my lord?"

Tyrion looked the boy up and down, as if he had sprouted another head. "No, don't announce me!"

Bronn raised his hand. "I'd like to be announced."

Shaking his head and asking the gods why they had cursed him with a man nearly as annoying as him, Tyrion finally took the leap and entered the tent.

He hadn't expected much fanfare upon his unexpected arrival, and yet still found himself disappointed. His father looked at him for a whole second before returning to whatever paperwork that was before him on his desk. His uncle, Kevan, at least had the decency to hold his gaze, and even give him a small smile. To think, he was considered the overly friendly one in the family.

Tyrion walked toward the center of the space and waited a moment, glancing around at all the trinkets his father had decorating the place. Bronn, somehow, still had a smug grin on his face.

He cleared his throat. "Father."

"Tell me," Tywin Lannister finally spoke, his voice like ice as he stood from his seat to glare at his youngest son from an even higher position. "Why have I received word that your brother is now a captive of Stannis Baratheon?"

Tyrion blinked. He was surprised, of course, but mostly relieved. The last he saw of Jaime, his brother was being carried off by some angry peasants. He knew Jaime, and he trusted him, but that did not make him sleep any easier at night, wondering if they hadn't just strung him up from the nearest tree and been done with it. To hear that Stannis had him was the best news he'd heard in some time.

"Seems word travels faster than we do," Bronn mumbled. It earned him a harsh glare from Tywin, but nothing seemed to phase the sellsword.

"The last I'd heard of Jaime, Ned Stark was sending him to save you, since you'd gone and gotten yourself captured, by Catelyn Tully no less. It appears he was successful in freeing you, yet somehow you're here and he isn't," Tywin continued, glaring between both men. "What happened?"

"There was an incident…in the Vale. Clansmen from the mountains descended on our escort. We had to fight them off, including myself," Tyrion started, turning to Kevan. "I bashed one of their heads in with a shield, and proceeded to throw up immediately after. It's a tale meant for song really."

Kevan was giving him that look, the one that told him not to antagonize his father. Funny how every member of his family had perfected it.

Tyrion turned back to Tywin, who was quite possibly burning a hole through his head at the moment. "We had no men and no horses, and then proceeded to run into some disgruntled farmers, Gregor Clegane's doing it seems. They took Jaime and that is the last I saw of him."

"You mean to tell me that my son and esteemed member of the Kingsguard was taken captive by a handful of peasants?"

Well, when his father put it like that, Jaime's noble surrender sounded far less…well, noble.

"There's a bit more to it than that, I believe."

"There's always more to it with you," Tywin countered, striding from his desk. He went to grab something from one of his trunks. "You had to go see your damn Wall, piss off the edge of the world as people like to say it. And now look where you've gotten us. The edge of war, your brother captured, and King's Landing in chaos."

Tyrion glanced at Bronn. "I'm not sure I've heard about that one."

Kevan sighed. "A lot has happened since you were captured, Tyrion. Robert Baratheon is dead, murdered, and Ned Stark stands accused."

Had he not felt the gravity of all that was transpiring around him before, Tyrion surely did now. Had this all really started because of the death of an old man and the fall of a little boy?

Tywin returned to his desk, tossing a new piece of parchment on top. "And now I am requested to act as Hand, as if I'm doing all of this for the benefit of my health. Your sister always was good at making a mess of things."

Seeing his father's anger turn from him to Cersei, Tyrion saw a rare opportunity to escape. "I think I shall take my leave, then. Find a good bed. Maybe some wine."

He made it one step.

"You're not staying."

"Well, I certainly hadn't hoped to join the war effort."

Tywin gave him a look. "You're going back to King's Landing. You'll depart as soon we've readied a horse."

"To do what?"

"To rein in your sister and keep things from spiraling out of our control," Tywin replied, writing something quickly on the parchment and handing it to him. "As Hand of the King."

Tyrion blinked. "Father, I-"

"Don't think of it as a gift. Until I am finished dealing with the river lords and the wolves to the north, not to mention sinking Dragonstone back into the sea, I need someone to look over things. Clearly Cersei cannot be trusted, nor my grandson, and your brother is not here to take up the task. You, Tyrion, are my last option."

Tyrion stood outside his father's tent for some time, staring down at the paper in his hands. That little parchment made him one of the most powerful men in all of Westeros. He wasn't entirely sure he wanted that.

Bronn was still beside him, somehow, watching the troops. "That went well."

"Believe me, that was one of our better meetings. You should see family dinners," Tyrion replied, looking up. "Bronn, would you care to join me in King's Landing? I could use a man of your talents."

"Is one of my talents being able to tolerate you?"

"That is certainly one of the more exceptional ones, yes."

Bronn nodded, considering. "Will I get paid?"

"You will be working for the Hand of the King. I'll give you whatever you want, though I was hoping our dear friendship would be more than enough."

The sellsword smirked. "Give me enough coin and I'll sing your praises in the streets if you want."

"That definitely won't be necessary," Tyrion said, watching as his readied horse approached. "So, what say you?"

Bronn shrugged. "Why not? I always wanted a cushy job."

Tyrion had the feeling looking after him was going to make the war look comfortable, especially when Cersei found out.

* * *

**Ned**

The days were starting to blur together; the only way he had to keep track of time was the food his guards brought on occasion. Most times, there was not even a lit torch to distract him, so he slept or listened to the distant shuffle of rats on the stonework. He once thought that perhaps he might go crazy in this place, but he had too many thoughts, too many questions; he had to keep his mind, if only for the sake of his daughters.

It shamed him to recall that he had not asked after them. Cersei would have never given him the satisfaction, of course, but at least he would have done as every father should: looked out for his children, in whatever way he could.

He should have sent Arya and Sansa with their sister, and instructed them to go straight to White Harbor. To have sent Myra to Stannis was…foolish, desperate, ill advised, much like most of his dealings ever since he arrived in King's Landing.

In the darkness, he sighed. Catelyn had told him not to go. She would never forgive him for this.

He would never forgive himself.

Ned could not say how many days had passed when Varys came to him, but the look on the eunuch's face when he caught sight of him in the torchlight said enough. Too long.

"Lord Stark," the spymaster greeted, kneeling before him. Ned took note that even now, visiting him in the dungeon where his presence would mean a death sentence, Varys still kept to his usual cleanliness. He was covered in a plain cloak, yes, but the eunuch was careful not to touch the walls or even sit upon the floor. Perhaps he had other reasons for that as well.

"Varys," Ned croaked. His throat was parched. He couldn't quite remember the last meal that was brought to him, but his stomach had stopped hungering long ago.

The eunuch offered a waterskin. Ned made no move toward it.

"If it were poison, you ought to be grateful. There are worse ways to die."

Ned grunted, but took what was offered, lapping at the water like some animal. It wasn't cool and tasted stagnant, but it may as well have been the sweetest Dornish wine.

"My daughters," Ned coughed as he drained the skin. "What has happened to them?"

Varys was silent for longer than he liked. Ned grabbed the collar of his cloak, though the grip was so weak, the man could have batted his hand off if he liked.

"Sansa and Arya. Are they well? What has happened?" he begged as Varys looked at him as though he were another man. "Please."

The eunuch took a breath. "They're gone, as far as we know. Your household is dead, but your daughters have scattered to the wind. It has put the Queen in quite the position. She has gone from three hostages to one."

Ned released his grip, slumping against the wall and mumbling a silent prayer to the gods. His daughters were free. He could not say how safe they were, but out of Cersei's clutches, they stood a better chance.

He hoped.

"There is to be a trial," Varys continued, straightening out his cloak. "If the Queen is smart, she'll have you meet an untimely end before it takes place. After all, anything you say, whether true or not, will be remembered."

His eyes narrowed. What was Varys getting at?

"Fortunately for you, the Queen is more spiteful than intelligent. She wants the whole realm to know your family's shame, even if it means dirtying herself in order to thoroughly drag you through the mud."

Varys looked to him, no doubt noting his confused look. "What I mean, Lord Stark, is that you hold something far more dangerous than any sword the crown commands: knowledge."

Ned slowly began to wrap his mind around the eunuch's plan. "You mean for me to speak the truth that Jon Arryn knew."

"Honor compelled you to play the game right into her hands," Varys spoke, standing. "Will you allow that same honor to tear your family apart before all the realm? Let the people decide what they believe."

"If you know what I do, then why do you not speak it?" Ned asked. "Why keep it a secret?"

"I serve the realm, Lord Stark, not the throne. But it is men greater than I who must shape its future. I only but whisper in their ears what they may shout."

Varys turned away then, his piece said. Ned had no delusions about the spymaster coming to save him from his imprisonment, and yet the sight of the man's back to him made a sort of finality dawn on him. He had faced death many a time on the battlefield, a parry too late, a sword far too close for comfort, but they had been passing threats, ones only remembered from the safety of hindsight. The one that loomed before him now provided far too much time for thoughts and regrets.

"Tell me," Ned murmured, as the light began to fade. "Who killed Robert?"

A voice in the darkness called back to him. "A vengeful woman whose anger is not entirely misplaced."

"I'm at death's door, and you would speak to me in riddles."

Ned did not expect him to reply. He knew enough to figure that Varys took smug satisfaction in leaving men with more questions than answers.

He had time to wonder at it, though; he had all the time in the world in that dungeon, pondering riddles in the dark.

* * *

**Robert**

He always knew, deep down, that his end would not be the glorious death he often envisioned as a lad. At some point, men get to the age where the closest thing to death in battle would be to fall off their horse drunk, snapping their neck in the process. He figured his would come as he took a shit; he only hoped he could have a good laugh about it before it all faded.

But not for one second did he ever believe he would go quietly.

The day Robert died, he woke from another miserable, sober night. He'd almost gotten pissed after the earful Cersei had given him over Joffrey, but the moment he reached for his wine, those damn sorrowful eyes were looking at him again. Myra Stark had a way of sticking with people.

He hadn't had a woman in some time either, only adding to his self-imposed misery. So, it took him by surprise to find a woman sitting on his desk, dark eyes watching him from over a goblet.

"Your name wouldn't happen to be Bessie, would it?" he could not help but jest.

Course that wasn't her name. Bessie had great big tits. This one had…alright ones. He wasn't about to complain. Tan skin, raven hair, and a sharp nose, he'd seen women far homelier. He'd been with damn ugly ones too. Never was very picky when it came to fucking.

"No, Your Grace," the woman replied. She placed the goblet down on his table, only to casually knock it over with her hand, watching as the wine spilled across the floor.

"Who are you?"

"Sand, Your Grace."

A bastard then, and a Dornish one at that. Made sense, given her looks. Least she couldn't be one of his. Never been with a Dornish woman, not a real one that was. Plenty of fake ones.

She stood from his desk then, walking gracefully across the floor toward his bed. The woman wore servants' clothes with dust and mud clinging to the bottom of her skirts, but she did not act like any of the servant girls he had met. They were either meek or eager to please in all sorts of ways. This woman was looking at him as if every breath offended her.

"Why are you here?" he asked, trying to sit up. He found that his body would not respond. It was as if everything were still asleep, and only his mind was working.

The woman sat on his bed, though he could not feel the sensation of the mattress dipping. "You are dying."

"Am I?"

She nodded, running her hand along the sheets. "They call it Sweetsleep, Your Grace. The next time you close your eyes, they will not open again."

He thought to get angry, to thrash about and demand his end come in a different way, but his body was tired, and failed to comply. All he could do was speak.

"Why?"

She shrugged. "I am not like my sisters. There is a time to fight, and there is a time to be smart, to let go of your anger and do what is necessary. I only wish now were not the case."

Robert looked at her, closely. "You're one of them, aren't you? Those damned Snakes."

"Syrena, Your Grace," she replied with a bow of her head. "Second daughter of Prince Oberyn, niece to the slain Princess Elia, and cousin to her butchered babes, Rhaenys and Aegon."

He remembered that night, when Tywin brought their broken and disfigured bodies to him. He'd nearly laughed, pleased with the outcome. Not once since then had he regretted it, not when Dorne threatened war nor when he had babes of his own. They were dragons, after all. Dragons had taken everything from him.

"I know your name," he whispered, finding it hard to raise his voice. Somewhere in the recesses of his memory, he'd heard it spoken, seen her raven hair out of the corner of his eye. She had always been here, following Myra Stark dutifully, and before that… "Cersei."

Her smile was sad, almost pitying. "She had a different end in mind for you. I offered something less complicated, and far more rewarding."

Robert tried to speak again, but his chest felt heavy, his mouth like an iron gate drawn shut. All he could do was watch as her hand reached out to his face, stroking his cheek gently. Her touch was cool.

"I am not cruel, Your Grace. Your death is far kinder than what was given to my family. I promise, you will feel nothing."

And as his eyes closed for the last time, all he saw was a beautiful woman with a dagger raised above his chest.

_Forgive me, Ned._


	19. The Players

**Ned**

They came to him without warning, manservants dressed in plain clothes. In the light of their torches, he spotted rags and buckets of water.

The day of the trial had arrived.

He did not fight as they scrubbed him clean, stripping him of his dignity and treating him with far less care than a man would his horse. He had no doubt Cersei wanted his humiliation to be as thorough as possible. She'd have probably had him dragged into court in his current state if it weren't for the stench.

It proved how little she knew of him. He was a man born from war, who lost his father, brother, and sister in swift, successive blows. If the Queen thought a rough bathing was going to break him, she was certainly not as intelligent as she believed herself to be.

His hands bound, a city watchman half dragged him through the dungeon. Ned marveled at the distance they walked, wondering how far the space truly extended. Given the Red Keep's history, he had no doubt it was once filled to the brim with prisoners, hostages, and the like. Some grim part of him predicted it might very well end up that way again.

The natural light that met his eyes as he finally stepped free from the darkness was blinding. Ned paused for a moment, hands blocking his view, but it was far too long a wait for his guard.

As a testament to how long he had been kept in such wretched conditions, it took the guard but one swift yank on the rope binding his hands to pull Eddard Stark off his feet and onto the floor. It was a sad reminder of how far he had fallen in so short a time.

"Get up," the guard barked, as if he was somehow intimidating. Ned met his eyes, a cold sort of defiance growing in him, one he had not felt since his youth when Targaryens reigned and his friend was neither king nor dead. This boy in armor would know that it was not some common peasant he thought to frighten, but the Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North.

Ned stood slowly. He was taller than the boy, yet the guard looked neither intimidated nor impressed. Perhaps they had both seen better days.

"Move," the boy said. Ned simply looked at him. He could not have been much older than Robb.

Robb, his eldest son, alone at home with his younger brothers, acting Lord of Winterfell. He had no doubt in his mind that the boy had called the banners. Although Ned wished he would not, he could not deny that the boy was right to. Had he not done so when his own family was here in King's Landing, in this very same predicament?

Were his children doomed to live the past he had tried so hard to forget?

"I said move," the boy continued, moving his hand as though he were about to slap him across the face.

A gloved hand, however, caught him by the wrist, thus avoiding further embarrassment on Ned's part.

"That's enough." Ser Barristan Selmy spoke quietly, but with an authority that brought the boyish nature out in the guard. His eyes widened, and his mouth dropped open with an audible 'pop.' All the guard could do was nod as Barristan took up his role.

"Give them a little power and suddenly it makes them all lords," Barristan noted as he watched the boy leave. "Wish I could say it was never like this before, but I'm a terrible liar."

Ned straightened himself. "You shouldn't speak to me like this. You guard those who accuse me, after all."

"And I will continue to do so until I draw my last breath," Barristan replied, glancing briefly in his direction. He looked resplendent in his Kingsguard armor, white cloak shimmering in the early morning light. A far sight better than himself, Ned was sure. "That does not mean I cannot believe my own truths. There are those of us who know that what you stand accused of is nothing more than a lie to keep these events in motion."

"I don't suppose any of them are going to be witnesses at the trial," Ned spoke, his humor making a rare appearance. He always had been better at it when his life was on the line.

"Afraid not, Lord Stark," Barristan said. "You're quite alone in this place."

Strangely, the thought was a comforting one. It meant his children were far away, and could not be used against him, or their brother should he decide to do something. If he had to die alone in the South for their safety, he would declare his guilt for the entire kingdom to hear.

Ser Barristan was ever the noble knight, allowing Ned to freely walk to the throne room, while he stood at his side. Though his hands were still bound, his lead had been cut, allowing him some dignity as he entered.

A hundred faces he did not know turned to him at once. Young lords and ladies whose fathers and grandfathers he had once met, fought beside, or even against, watched him with accusing and bemused eyes. Guards stood in silent vigil on either side, looking at anything but him as they held the line between the accused and the gallery. And at the end of it all sat the Iron Throne, and the lions he was to be thrown to.

Joffrey, whom he supposed had been crowned king since he was locked away, was seated on the Iron Throne, looking more a boy than ever as the seat of authority threatened to swallow him. Cersei was to his right, still dressed in black, though a large, red lion had been embroidered on the bodice of her dress. The smug look on her face only diminished slightly upon realizing he wasn't been dragged into court the way she would have wanted.

Ned took some small satisfaction in that.

To Joffrey's left, however, was an unexpected sight. Janos Slynt, the Commander of the City Watch, had taken up a seat of honor. His grin was possibly more unbearable than Cersei's.

Barristan returned to his place beside the boy king, leaving Ned to stand alone before the throne. They had not even placed pulpits for the witnesses. No one expected this trial to last long.

"Lord Eddard Stark," Joffrey began, looking far too comfortable in his seat of power. He hardly seemed like a boy who had just lost his father. Although, Ned supposed Robert had never been much of a father to him or to any of his supposed children. There was a bastard girl in the Vale he had taken to once, long ago when she was his first child, but like most things, his interest had waned. "You stand accused of regicide, for the murder of my father, King Robert Baratheon. How do you plead?"

Ned looked at the three people staring down at him. What a farce this was.

"Am I to be tried by my accuser?" he asked, looking between Cersei and Joffrey.

The Queen smirked. "You are accused by Ser Boros Blount of the Kingsguard."

Of course he was.

"And what of this man?" Ned motioned to Janos. "Am I not to be judged by a proper lord?"

The commander's face reddened at the slight. "I have been granted Harrenhal's seat, for my role in ending your traitorous schemes."

For his role in slaughtering his household, more like. What sort of man took pride in butchering servants and septas?

Cersei's smile grew. "Lady Whent relented the castle to my father some days ago."

Ned thought to end it there, to just let them be done with it all, though he doubted they would actually execute him right away. With his daughters gone, Cersei had no one to hold the North at bay other than him. But Ned was no fool. No scenario was going to end with him walking away, not even if he requested trial by combat. If he was fortunate enough to survive fighting one of the Kingsguard, there was no doubt in his mind a knife in the dark would find him at some point.

Gods above, he really had become the paranoid sort. Unfortunately, far too late for his sake.

He straightened himself, determined to see this through. Perhaps he would play this game.

"I am not guilty of the crimes I am accused of," he stated, looking Cersei in the eye. "Begin your trial."

Hour after hour, witness after witness, it was all the same. Men and women paid or frightened into testimony wove tales of Lord Stark's jealousy toward Robert, of how he desired the throne and regretted allowing a man such as his friend to not only take it, but defile it by how he governed his people. And though Cersei never spoke, every word came from her mouth. He could hear her voice, sweet and vile, uttering the syllables. How proud she must have been.

He bore every accusation with little more than a look, focusing rather on remaining standing as his energy waned. His eyes stared at the top of the Iron Throne, barely glancing the blonde hair of the boy king beneath. It reminded him of the first time he entered the keep, only to find the Mad King dead and Jaime Lannister seated on the throne with about as much care as his son took now.

The man was likely out in the Riverlands at that very moment, burning them for what they had done with his brother. King Robert may have ordered Tyrion free, but Ned never expected Jaime to follow through on anything else. Undoubtedly word had spread about the king's demise, thus Tywin was free to do as he wished.

His attention only returned to the trial when Littlefinger took the stand. He expected nothing good from him either. A 'friend' of Catelyn's he may have been, but Lord Baelish stood to gain everything from dragging his name through the mud.

"Lord Baelish," Joffrey started, sounding no less enthusiastic than when they started. "What can you add to the accusations that the court has not heard yet?"

The way the man looked at him sent a chill up Ned's spine.

"Your Grace," he said with a bow. "While I do not doubt the validity of the accusers, their solemn belief in what they say, I would say that I do not believe Lord Stark committed this crime for the reasons given."

There were murmurs in the crowd. Ned felt his hair stand on edge.

Janos sat up in his seat. "Do you claim Lord Stark to be innocent?"

"Of course not, Lord Janos," Littlefinger said with a smirk. "I do believe that he murdered our good and gracious king, but not out of jealousy. Northerners aren't prone to these sorts of things, not for anything south of the Neck leastwise. No, his motivations are far simpler. It was anger that moved his blade, betrayal, a father's fury."

No.

He could not.

"We all know how his daughter, Myra, resembled the late Lyanna. And, no offense to you my Queen, how he still pined for his long dead betrothed."

Cersei could only nod, her sadness a pale mask. Ned could see the scheming face she barely hid beneath. "It is true. My husband often wished she were here instead of me."

"A poor choice on Father's part," Joffrey added.

Littlefinger nodded. "The girl knew she could trust me. After all, I am a good friend of her mother, and she had no one to turn to in her time of need. Her father, she warned, would never understand, and would no doubt take his friend's life if he ever knew. She hoped I could smooth things over."

"What is this?" Ned asked, his voice rising. "What are you doing?"

"The accused will remain silent," Joffrey spoke, his voice echoing across the chamber. "Unless spoken to directly."

Littlefinger was smug as he looked at Ned. "Forgive me, Your Grace, but King Robert was a lonely man, in his own mind, and Myra Stark is…a naïve soul. She didn't want the crown, only him."

"That is enough!" Ned shouted, blood boiling. He took a step forward, only to meet the ends of swords from the City Watch. Ser Barristan descended from the dais to stand beside him. He met his eyes briefly; he knew the truth. But they would never allow him to take the stand.

"Ser Barristan," Cersei called out. "The next time Lord Stark speaks, gag him."

"I advised the girl to end it," Littlefinger continued. "The King never would on his own. But she claimed to love him, and that forcing her away with Renly would only break her heart. And then…she asked if I could procure Moon Tea."

"ENOUGH!" Ned bellowed, his voice carrying throughout the room, silencing whatever murmurs had started because of Littlefinger's accusations. In the far corner of the room, Varys turned to leave.

This was his daughter, his sweet, precious child, who had done nothing to earn the ire of every person in this very room. Her only crime was to look like a dead woman, and all she had ever done was attempt to rid herself of the comparison. Now, they would bury her with it instead.

He had failed her at every turn since they arrived in King's Landing, and he had failed her in sending her away. Ned did not even know if she had managed to return home. She was lost much like his other daughters. But in this, he could not fail her, he must not.

"If it's my confession you want, you have it!" Ned shouted as Barristan held him back. "I killed Robert Baratheon!"

* * *

**Sansa**

She watched a rat scurry across the floor. It nibbled at a piece of bread that had fallen from the table the night before. The first time she saw one, Sansa had shrieked, and Syrena had held her mouth shut for fear of what her screams might bring. But in the end, no one came. No one cared.

In Flea Bottom, everyone ignored you.

Sansa had curled up on her bed, which was little more than some hay on brickwork, elevated from the floor just enough that she considered herself a little safe from the rats. Her feet were tucked inside her dress, the very one she had been wearing the day she escaped. Syrena had brought her 'proper clothing' for Flea Bottom, but Sansa could not bring herself to put the rags on. The thought alone made her want to cry.

The rat had grown comfortable enough with its surroundings to sit up and eat its food.

She tossed a bit of straw in its direction, watching as the small creature panicked briefly before investigating the new object.

A small blade flew across the room and embedded itself in the rat's chest. The thing didn't even cry out before it died.

"Don't play with the vermin," Syrena spoke, walking to the dead creature to retrieve her weapon. Her dark eyes locked with hers as she knelt down, but Sansa resolutely stared through her. "Still not speaking?"

Sansa blinked. Syrena sighed.

She had cried for days straight, and lost all track of time. The days were hot, the nights freezing, and Syrena was not even in the tiny hut she had forced Sansa to stay in half the time. Someone could have come in at any point and taken her away, and still her sister's handmaiden insisted this was the safest place.

Safe? What was safe? At least in the Red Keep, she would have been warm and given good food, not some lumpy bread that only the rats seemed to enjoy. She could bathe there and sleep in a comfortable bed, and her father was there, somewhere. He would have spoken to Joffrey, surely, and cleared everything up by now. He might even be searching for her at that very moment.

Of course, when she brought these ideas to Syrena's attention, the handmaiden only scoffed. Her father was in a dungeon, she said, and Joffrey was going to put him on trial.

Sansa refused to believe her.

"You're going to have to speak again at some point," Syrena said, gathering up her things. She put a scarf around her head, and hid a few blades in parts of her dress. "Your sister is still missing, but I have heard rumor about a little boy with a fancy blade running around. Might be her. I will return at nightfall."

And then she was gone.

Sansa stared at the doorway a moment, listening to the sound of people traveling to and fro outside the hut, before sitting up.

She moved slowly to the door, which was barely solid wood, filled with cracks anyone could look through. It was through one now that she glanced outside, though there was not much to see. It was an alleyway, or perhaps just a really narrow road. She didn't know how things worked in Flea Bottom.

Two equally decrepit doors sat on walls across from her, and in between them, a man tanned from years in the sun. He wore ragged clothes and shook a cup at any person who passed by. Several of his teeth were missing.

Sansa nearly screamed when his gaze turned to the door and somehow locked eyes with her. She pressed both hands to her mouth and closed her eyes, willing him away. There were never such dreadful people in the Red Keep. Just beautiful ladies in pretty dresses and knights whose armor shone in the sun.

How could anyone think this place was preferable?

The man was back to shaking his cup when she dared to glance out the door again, but in the back of her mind, he was still watching.

She'd had enough.

In a moment of pure frustration, Sansa ripped open the door to her sanctuary and bolted outside. Immediately, the man stood up to her, shaking that cup and grinning. He was drooling all over himself and smelled of something putrid.

Sansa did shriek then, pushing past him and down the alley. All about her, men and women dirtier than she thought possible turned to look at her, their gazes frightening. Some were laughing, others grabbed at the hem of her dress, but she moved too fast for any to get a solid grip. They shouted after her, terrible words that her mother and septa had warned against.

For a brief moment, Sansa thought to turn back and return to the place she knew. As wretched as it was, it was also familiar. But as soon as she turned her head to look back down the alley, Sansa knew she was lost. In her terror, she had turned this way and that, and had lost the path. All the doors looked the same, all the people the same terrible kind.

How big could Flea Bottom be?

Would she be stuck here forever?

A small figure barreled into her, knocking Sansa into a nearby stall. Fearing the worst, she began to hit at whoever it was, until they started to fight back, screeching in a voice that she was all too familiar with.

Sansa grabbed the wrists of what she had at first thought was a little boy, only to recognize the gray eyes staring back at her.

"Arya?"

Her little sister ceased her struggles. "Sansa?"

"You're covered in dirt."

"You're covered in blood." Arya paused. "Is it-"

"Septa Mordane…she…"

Sansa could not finish the thought.

They embraced then, clinging to each other as if their lives depended upon it. Sansa could not remember the last time she had hugged her sister, genuinely that was, not because their mother or father had forced it upon them as some form of punishment. But right now, Arya might have been the greatest thing she had ever set her eyes on.

She could barely recognize her sister anymore, in her leggings and dirtied tunic. Her face looked as if she had found a puddle of mud and had rubbed it all over her. But somehow she had kept that stupid little sword of hers, the one she said Jon gave her. She wondered if that made her feel safer down here.

"You should come with me," Sansa said after they released. "I'm going back to the Red Keep."

Arya shook her head. "I'm not going back there. They killed Syrio."

"Who cares about your dancing instructor, Arya? We don't belong out here. We're the daughters of the Hand of the King."

Her little sister stood suddenly, her eyes widening. She always looked like that when their mother called her name, usually because she had forgotten to do one of her chores; she preferred to spend her time shooting her bow and making their brother jealous.

"We have to go."

"What do you mean?"

"Father!" Arya shouted, offering her hand. "They're taking him to the Sept of Baelor."

Despite her small frame, Arya pulled Sansa up quickly, darting away as soon as her sister was stable on her feet. Sansa groaned and ran after her, suddenly forgetting that she was still in the most horrible place she had ever been to. She was in Winterfell, for all she knew, chasing down her sister after she broke something, again.

The crowds were thinning, and people paid less and less attention to the young woman dressed in fine clothing. They were more concerned with the bells tolling in the distance and the gathering crowds at the far end of the street.

In the distance, Sansa could make out the Red Keep towering over the small households. The mere sight of it was a comfort to her.

They ran to the edge of the crowd, where Arya immediately climbed a statue for a better look. Sansa watched her, on edge as she was left alone again. Even if she wanted to climb, which she didn't, her dress would never allow for it, leaving her amongst the commoners.

Above the crowd, on the large steps that led to the sept, Sansa could make out the Queen and Joffrey. Both looked wonderful in matching red themed outfits, but Joffrey stood out more with the golden crown seated upon his head. He was the king now, she remembered. His father had been murdered. And her father…

He stood below them. For one brief moment, her heart soared, Sansa fully believing that he was about to be pardoned for a crime he had clearly never committed. But then she saw how he stood, so weakly, and with his hands bound.

And then one of the guards forced him to his knees.

No.

They couldn't.

What were they doing?

Her father was the Hand of the King! Robert's greatest and truest friend! He had fought alongside him, fought for the kingdom; he was to be Joffrey's father by marriage to her! This was wrong. All wrong. It wasn't happening; it just wasn't.

"No, they can't!" Arya shouted, grabbing her little blade and diving into the crowd.

Sansa did not follow. No, she did the opposite. She backed away, far away.

This was wrong. All wrong. Joffrey would never. He couldn't.

But he was.

"Lord Eddard Stark has confessed to the murder of my father, Robert Baratheon!" Joffrey shouted, his voice echoing across the courtyard. How sweet it has sounded to her once. Now it screeched in her ears. "And for this heinous act, I will have his head!"

Sansa watched Ser Ilyn Payne climb the steps, her own family sword in his hands.

No.

Please.

"Foolish girl!"

A cloak was thrown about her shoulders, made of scratchy, tan fabric, hiding the colors of her dress. Syrena appeared at her side, dark eyes on fire.

"I told you to stay!" she shouted, shaking her shoulders. "Where is your sister? I saw her. Where did she go?"

Sansa barely noticed the woman, her eyes fixated on the steps.

"They can't…they…"

Syrena looked to the steps, and tried to turn her around. "We have to go. You mustn't look."

"We have to help him, please."

The handmaiden grabbed Sansa's face between her hands, staring deep into her eyes. "Listen to me, Sansa. We cannot save him. No one can."

Tears were stinging her eyes. That couldn't be true. It just couldn't!

Her father was the Lord of Winterfell! She was the future Queen of the Seven Kingdoms! It just could not be true!

And then she heard the swing of a sword, and the frenzied cries of a bloodthirsty crowd.

* * *

**Myra**

There had been a time when Myra thought she had gotten her father killed.

When she was four and ten, Ned Stark took his daughter out for a late day ride. Robb had pouted like the young boy that he was, but upon hearing from their father that he was in charge of Winterfell while they were gone, he had straightened and done his best somber impression of a lord. He had looked rather silly to Myra, but she did not tease him for it, if only because their father had been there.

They had ridden quietly through the dense forest, allowing their horses to gently pick their way through the brush, speaking of this and that. There was no particular reason he had taken her out that day, other than to spend some time with her. With six children, she imagined it was difficult to get alone time with any one person, her especially, since Robb was practically attached to her at the hip.

She could not recall who had suggested it, but the memory of her father's wicked smile made her believe he was the one to bring up a race. It was one of the rare moments in which he spoke freely about his siblings, and how they had once charged through the forest, reckless and prideful. Of course, Brandon never won. He was a large man and his courser equally so. The Wolfswood was not made for their kind. But Lyanna and her palfrey could navigate through the winding soldier pines as though they were born amongst the trees.

Ever eager to take advantage of a light-hearted moment with her father, Myra had surged forward on Tempest. For once, she did not mind the idea of being like Lyanna as she tore a path clean through the Wolfswood. Branches full of needles whipped across her face and stuck to her hair as she flew across the moss-covered stones, but they may as well have been feathers. She noticed none of it, only the surging satisfaction as she burst free of the tree line, the clear victor.

Turning to face her skilled opponent, Myra was surprised to see her father was nowhere behind her. Briefly, she thought to be upset with him, as though he had purposely lost because that was what fathers did for their children. But the time dragged, and still he did not appear.

When his horse, rider less, cleared the trees, Myra panicked. She turned Tempest about, storming back into the Wolfswood.

"Father!" she had cried, scanning the greenery for any sign of his cloak. "Father, answer me! Father!"

Was it wrong to pray to the old gods and the new, she wondered? Would it not just mean double the help?

Eventually, she found a dark figure rising from the brush, a little worse for wear but relatively undamaged. She was so excited by the revelation that her father was well that she jumped from her horse into his arms, thus returning Lord Eddard Stark to the brush whence he came.

Her father had groaned from the impact, but it quickly melted into a deep chuckle.

"Let's not tell your mother about this one."

She could look for him now, call his name until her voice was hoarse, by Myra knew she would not see her father. Not on the waves of the Narrow Sea nor in the cool shade of the Wolfswood. She'd not hear his deep laughter nor feel the warmth of his embrace again. He was nothing more than the memories she cherished.

Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, was dead.

They'd had the gall to tell her in the Great Hall like some grand announcement. A trial was mentioned and a confession, but all that stuck to her was his manner of death: a beheading, with his own family sword.

She had sat in the godswood with her father as he cleaned Ice many a time, as had Robb and Jon. Both boys had tried to pick it up on multiple occasions, failing at every go. Myra liked to think it wasn't because of their lack of strength, but that the sword simply did not wish to be held by them. It had an otherworldly feel to it, as though it were alive, at least to her.

Now those memories had been tainted by her father's blood.

Myra had said nothing to Stannis, or any of the others who may have questioned her. She simply turned on her heel and left the room, cold and alone. There were no tears; there was nothing. Just…nothing.

She had seen this coming, had she not?

Jory had taken his place beside her as they stood on the cliffs of the island, gazing over the sea. There was no godswood in Dragonstone, no weirwood whose red leaves she could take shelter under; there was only the gloom of the castle and all those who resided within. So, the outdoors would do, where no one could see her face or hear the words she spoke.

"You have to leave, Jory," she said, voice deeper than she recalled.

Her guard must not have been paying close attention, for it took him a while to respond.

"My lady?"

"Lord Stannis wants me to remain on Dragonstone. He cares not what you do," Myra replied, turning to face him. She wondered if he looked older, or if it was the angle of the sun. "You could take his terms to Robb. His ravens will never find the war camp."

Jory Cassel was not a man who disobeyed. He had followed her father faithfully most of his life, questioning none of his motives, and giving no reason to doubt his loyalty. But in that moment, she saw a spark in his eyes.

Defiance.

"My lady, I cannot. I will not," Jory practically spat, the words difficult. "I swore to your lord father that I would protect you, and I cannot do that from across the kingdom."

"My father is dead!" she shouted. Myra quickly wiped away a tear that dared to escape down her cheek. "My father is dead, Jory, and you are released from whatever vows you may have made to him. Now, you must go to Robb and give him whatever Stannis asks of you."

Jory shook his head. She knew she was hurting him, and it brought her no pleasure, but this was the only way.

"Do you not serve my household, Jory?" Myra implored, watching his struggle. "Will you not listen to me as you did my father?"

"My lady, I-"

Myra reached out, softly touching his hand. "I need you to trust me."

That seemed to calm him. Jory took a deep breath, meeting her eyes and nodding. Defiance was replaced with fierce determination.

He stepped back then, unsheathing his sword and laying it at her feet before he took a knee.

"Lady Myra, I am no southern knight, but my words are no less true. I pledge to protect you, to counsel you, and to carry out your orders. And if my death is required in order to perform this duty, then so be it. I swear this by the old gods."

The young woman in her smiled at his neglect of the new gods; the lady who was Myra Stark stepped forward and offered her hand.

"Jory, you are far greater than any knight could hope to be, and I vow to you that you will always have a place in my home and a seat at my table, and that I will never ask of you anything that should cause you dishonor. This I swear to the old gods."

He stood, sheathing his sword. "What would you have me do, my lady?"

"When you take Stannis' missive to my brother, give him a message from me."

Myra looked back briefly at Dragonstone. Its standards had been changed. The stag of House Baratheon, once free, was now enclosed in a flaming heart, the work of Melisandre and her strange religion. Beyond the castle, a fleet had gathered in the port, ready for an invasion. The images were foreboding, and yet they did not frighten her. She had found a calm amidst the chaos.

This was not the first time, nor the last, that death would change her view upon the world.

"Tell him not to bend the knee. Tell him the Starks bow to no king."


	20. The Kings

**Robb**

The King in the North.

That was going to take some getting used to, although he'd been telling himself that for nearly a month. Still, every time he heard it, the sound nearly made him jump out of his skin. It was not so much the words as it was the conviction in the voices that spoke it, or shouted it most times. These men truly believed in him with every breath they took.

And the boy who had become a king was absolutely terrified of letting them all down.

Robb sat back in his seat, rubbing his eyes as the words on the war map began to blur.

It had been easier when his father was alive. They'd had a goal: go to King's Landing and free him. Now that he was gone, the war was turning into a complicated affair. None of his sisters were in King's Landing, so far as he had heard, and he doubted the Lannisters would pass on an opportunity to inform him of their valuable hostages.

So, why even head further south? To sack the capital out of vengeance? No one wanted that particular throne less than him.

Should he sack Casterly Rock in the West instead? Give the minstrels a new verse for the Rains of Castamere?

And what about after? He was called the King in the North, but the Riverlands had sworn to him too. When it was all said and done, was he to retreat to Winterfell and leave half his people trapped between Lannister forces?

Robb sighed. He hated looking at all of this objectively. His mother would have cuffed him if she'd heard how casually he tossed his father's death aside. But he was a king now, not a boy playing at war. Emotions were dangerous. Everything had to be a piece on a board, nothing more.

His gaze drifted toward Dragonstone.

It was such a small island that the map barely noted it, but that patch of rock meant more to him than Casterly Rock or King's Landing.

Myra was there.

He felt his hand clench into a fist.

An island. How in the Seven Hells was he supposed to get his army to an island?

If only Theon would return already…

So absorbed in his thoughts, Robb barely noticed the tent flap open. Two figures moved out of the corner of his eye, but his gaze could not be torn from that island.

"Robb!"

Finally glancing up, he noticed his mother at his side, eyes wild with both joy and fear, and a man behind her, dirty and haggard from a long journey. He almost looked like…

"Jory?"

His father's captain smiled, weary but grateful, and gave a small incline of his head. "I suppose it's Your Grace now."

Robb stood slowly, staring at the man as if he had just fallen out of a dream. The last he had set eyes on him, half his family was traveling to King's Landing. To see anyone return from that place was…surreal. It firmly rooted the reality of the situation, dashing any distant hope that somehow everything that had happened in the capital was all a lie.

"How did you escape?" he asked, having no doubt in his mind that Jory would have laid down his life for his father if he had been present.

Jory's face grew solemn, thoughts no doubt mirroring his. "I wasn't in King's Landing when Lord Stark was betrayed, Your Grace. I was with your sister on Dragonstone."

"He's brought a message from Myra," Catelyn added, her voice practically cracking. His mother had not slept well as of late, having no word from any of her daughters.

Robb gave one firm nod. "Tell me everything."

And tell him, Jory did.

Robb was torn between the raging anger at Stannis and the swelling pride for his sister. Myra was not quick to anger, but he knew the power she could command when driven to that point. One might have said he was an expert on taking his sister's rage. Still, he never thought to hear her stand up to anyone like Stannis. His father's bannermen, certainly, but she had grown in their company; she knew their limits. The man who currently held her captive was another beast entirely.

It seemed much had changed for his twin.

Much had changed for both of them.

"She said that you should not bend the knee," Jory continued. "That the Starks bow to no king. Seems to me no matter the distance, the two of you still know what the other is thinking."

Robb's grin was tight. He wished it were so easy. He could use her chiding to keep him in place.

He also really wanted to test the title of princess on her.

_Still a boy_ , Robb thought.  _A boy and a king._

Catelyn looked frantic, as if those words weren't enough. No amount would be, he supposed.

"What of her sisters? Sansa and Arya, are they with her?"

Jory shook his head. "I've had no word of them, my lady."

She fell silent again.

Robb shook his head. "My sister, ever the selfless one. I know what her words mean. Don't come for her; don't let Stannis hold her over my head."

Catelyn gasped. "Robb, you don't mean to leave her there! She's your sister!"

He held up a hand. "I have no intention of doing that, Mother. When Theon returns, I'll send his father's fleets east. The krakens enjoy their pillaging. I'll give them something to burn."

Jory looked proud. His mother was horrified but calmed quickly. After all, they had both promised to kill them all.

"Will you return to her?" Robb asked.

The captain nodded. "I will, Your Grace. I swore my service to her."

"She couldn't ask for a better sword to protect her," Robb replied, grasping the man's shoulder. "Tell her I'm coming, Jory. One way or another, her brother is going to get her back."

* * *

**Myra**

The gods were burning.

She'd never worshipped the Seven, despite her mother's best efforts, but she knew the names: Father, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Warrior, Smith, and Stranger. Each person preferred a different aspect, but all were cast aside equally on the beaches of Dragonstone. A crowd had gathered in silence. Was it to be respectful or mocking?

Myra turned away from the sight, disgusted. Her balcony had a remarkably good view of the wretched ceremony. She wondered if they took that into account.

At least they hadn't bothered trying to bring her with. Might have been a little awkward when she refused to kneel.

"What is happening?"

Shireen was sitting on her bed, flipping through a book she had brought with. Myra had asked she keep away from the window. She had no doubt the girl was breaking several of her father's commands by being in the same room as her, and did not want to chance a guard looking up at the wrong time.

For both their sakes, she should have just sent the girl away, but Shireen had grown on her, and, truthfully, Myra had grown lonely. With Jory gone, there weren't many to speak to, except the walls perhaps, though King's Landing had taught her those have ears as well. Shireen was probably the only person on Dragonstone who could speak as though war had not broken loose across the countryside.

How she missed that sort of ignorance.

"Your father is burning things," Myra mumbled, walking back inside.

"Mother says that is how R'hllor speaks to us, through flame," Shireen replied, thoughtful. "I never hear anything. Just crackling."

Myra went to sit beside her. "That's probably for the best. Why should the gods speak to us? They're up there, and we're down here."

It seemed everyone was where she wasn't.

Moments passed in silence. Shireen continued to flip through her book, though it was clear she wasn't focused on it. The girl had something on her mind.

"I'm sorry," she blurted suddenly, looking up at her. In the darkness of her room, it appeared that her face was still whole. "I asked Father why he wouldn't let you go home. He wouldn't tell me, but I know it's bad. He always makes the same face when it's bad."

Myra hadn't been aware that Stannis was capable of making faces.

"Are we enemies?"

The stone she had begun to guard her heart with gave way slightly. Myra felt her face soften, and her lips form a small smile, the kind mothers reserved for their children when they overreacted to silly things, as was their nature.

"Do you hate me?" she asked.

Shireen blinked, as if she spoke madness. "Of course not!"

Myra felt her smile grow. "Good, because I certainly don't hate you. Now, I vow to never fight you, will you do the same?"

The girl nodded. "By the old gods and the new."

Not the red, Myra noted.

"Then we are not enemies."

Shireen's smile could light the whole room.

The moment was cut short, however, when Ser Davos stepped into the threshold of her room. Shireen had forgotten to close the door when she came inside. Myra hadn't minded much. They did not keep guards on her. Where was she to go? The open sea?

"Pardon the interruption, my lady, but-" he paused, taking note of her guest, eyes going wide. "Princess? What are you doing here? If His Grace discovers you're here, or your mother-"

"I know. I know," Shireen said, sliding off her bed. "She'd actually have to pay attention to me."

Myra pursed her lips. Davos looked distraught.

"Princess…"

"Goodnight, Ser Davos," Shireen replied, sneaking past him. "Goodnight, Myra!"

The Stark and the Onion Knight stared at one another in awkward silence, until Myra stood, straightening out her dress.

"I apologize, Ser Davos, for letting her stay. I know that she-"

Davos held up a hand, the one with shorter fingers. "There is no need, my lady. The Princess has a way of getting exactly what she wants out of people."

Spoken like a man who knew her charms all too well.

Despite all circumstances, Myra still very much enjoyed the company of Ser Davos. He was a genuine sort of man, honest and courteous to a fault, a complete opposite from the likes she had been subjected to since leaving home. He seemed almost incapable of hating anyone, not matter what side of the silly war they found themselves on. But Davos  _wasn't_  on her side, at least not where it matter, so even now, her guard had to be up.

What a tiring thing it was.

"I presume Lord Stannis wishes to see me?" Myra asked, building back up the wall she had made. It was a small thing that covered her heart, but with every threat to her family, with every word spoken against her, with every bloody second that passed on this wretched island, it grew a little taller and a little stronger.

If Davos still took offense to Myra's title usage, he did not show it. "His Grace waits for you in the Great Hall, my lady."

* * *

Whatever ferocity had overcome her the day Myra had sent Jory away seemed to have carried forward with her. Where once she saw the Great Hall as some large, foreboding thing, as cold as the waters that surrounded the island, now she only gazed upon a room, a room of stone with people of stone. They were nothing in the wake of what she suffered in King's Landing, of what she suffered even now as the loss of her father still clawed at her soul.

In light of all that, Stannis had become as intimidating as one of Tommen's kittens.

The man himself was not seated on his throne. He was staring at it, his back to her, his crown resting on one of the arms. Melisandre was nowhere to be seen, but even so, Myra felt the woman's eyes on her.

"It seems your brother will not bend the knee."

Myra allowed herself a small smile, if only because he could not see it. Defiant she might have become, but she wasn't a complete fool.

"In fact, he's made himself a king," Stannis continued, finally turning to face her. That same indifference she had come to know rested on his face, but his words were tight. It bothered him. "The King in the North, they call him."

Her brother, a king? It sounded like some sort of fantasy, but if there was thing she could say about Stannis, it was that he did not lie. He did not admit things until he was certain they were fact.

"I told you my brother would not look kindly on this," Myra spoke, taking his silence as her cue. "It seems your kingdom shrinks a little more every day."

She'd heard the rumors about Renly, how he had fled south in the wake of her father's capture and claimed the title of king for himself. He had the Stormlands and the Reach behind him, quite the formidable force.

"You think a few words are going to make me tremble, girl?" Stannis asked, taking a seat at last. "You can drop your titles and your courtesies, but you're no leader, no tactician. Your words have no weight. You're just a child holding a tantrum. Shall I deny you supper in order to teach you a lesson?"

Myra felt her eyes narrow, but she said nothing. He would only take it as more proof of his claim.

"It seems that you face a choice, Myra Stark," Stannis continued, in no way slighted by her silence. "Despite his grievous mistakes, your father was an honorable man, as was his father before him. He knew the way things ought to be, that the Iron Throne is mine by birthright. You said as much yourself.

"Your brother is a traitor, and the lords who would rally to him as well. When I have taken King's Landing, they will be dealt with, but I am no fool. The North cannot be ruled by any of my bannermen. They would break before bringing it to heel."

She watched him touch the crown, fingers gently tracing the golden flames; she feared the words he would speak next.

"Bend the knee to me, and it's yours. I will declare you the Lady of Winterfell and the Warden of the North. You will be free to marry whomever you wish, and I will see to it that your children are trueborn Starks. Or if you prefer, you may grant it to one of your younger brothers, provided they do the same."

For a moment, it fell silent. All Myra could hear was the sound of her breathing, the pounding of her heart in her ears.

Was this the true face of the South, power at any price? To forsake the family she had known her whole life, who she loved with all her being, who she yelled and laughed and cried with, for some pretty title and a lord's seat?

She was not so ignorant that she believed this could never happen. The Blackfyres had proven many a time that power could drive man to spill his kin's blood, but from what she had seen in the past few months, it almost seemed commonplace. They in the South who would call her people backward and barbaric stood ready to stab their brothers and sisters in the back and claim themselves superior.

Would her father truly call this honor?

"No," she hissed, her teeth clenched. She was trembling, but not from the cold. "Betray the crown or betray my family, I know where I stand. I will not bend the knee to any man but my brother, Robb Stark, the King in the North."

Stannis sighed. Why did he suddenly remind her of her father?

"So be it."

At the wave of his hand, two guards blanked her on either side. Their leathers, she noted, bore the flaming stag. How quickly the transformation took place. Had Stannis always been this eager to turn his back on his own?

Myra could not help but glance down at the sheathed sword nearest her. Noticing her movement, the guard drew it out ever so slightly, revealing the polished steel. Her eyes flickered to his. Whatever reaction the man had expected, what she gave him was not it. She barely registered anything. Where was the fear, she wondered?

Stannis stood, placing the crown on his head. "Myra Stark, I, Stannis Baratheon, the First of My Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm, do hereby declare you a traitor to the crown. The penalty for such a crime is death."

She watched him step from the dais. He had just taken her life into his hands and shown it to her, and yet she was not afraid. There was nothing but calm. Was this how her father had faced his end?

"Fortunately for you, I will grant a stay of execution until after the war is concluded," Stannis continued, stepping before her. Myra met his gaze head on. She wondered if her reaction disappointed him.

"Perhaps your brother can beg for your life after I have laid waste to his army."

* * *

**Tyrion**

He had never expected a warm welcome upon his return to the capital, but to be ignored entirely? It seemed his sister had more surprises left for him after all.

They had traveled with a modest group of soldiers, which for a Lannister, even the infamous Imp, could be no less than one hundred strong. His family had an image to maintain after all. Plus, after the whole Catelyn fiasco, Tyrion was certain he'd never be allowed to travel lightly guarded ever again. Being an embarrassment, he had come to realize, did have its benefits.

No one greeted them at the Dragon Gate, or any of the smaller ones thereafter. A single squire ran out from the stables to inquire about their horses, but no messenger was present to announce their arrival nor any sort of servant to give them escort. Even Varys, who undoubtedly, somehow, had already caught wind of his new title, had not bothered to show his face. Had he not frequented the capital so often, Tyrion might have been reduced to waving down a scullery maid or some such to give him directions.

The absurdity of it all stank of Cersei.

He had to wonder if she didn't already know what their father had done as well.

When he finally made it to her solar, which, after such a long trip on the road, took him far longer than he was willing to admit, Tyrion immediately sank into the nearest chair, his legs on fire. Conveniently, a decanter sat on the nearby table. He hadn't had anything proper to drink since his capture. His father, of course, had made certain his caravan was dry, but with his sister, Tyrion always had two things he could count on: that she loathed his very being, and that there was always wine nearby.

Cersei was too busy transcribing something to pay him any mind. Oh, she knew he was there, but she liked to pretend she did not notice. It had given her great pleasure when they were little children and he had not known better, becoming utterly convinced he had truly vanished. That was until Jaime sorted him out. Clearly she had not grown out of the habit.

He doubted she was writing anything of import. Gossip perhaps, or 'I hate my little brother' over and over again.

Although, at this point, he couldn't actually be certain which brother she was referring to.

"I see you've redecorated," Tyrion observed, glancing around her quarters. She'd never been one to shy away from her heritage. Where most women were expected to take their lord husband's colors and sigil, Cersei had always done the opposite, countering Robert at every turn. Now, it seemed she had put an extra smattering of red and gold about the place for good measure. There were certainly more lions about.

Cersei, of course, said nothing. Although her writing sounded more furious.

Tyrion drank a little more, fingers tapping some tune he'd heard Bronn singing once on the road. Still, Cersei made no move to speak. She even seemed to relax, as if accepting her own lie and believing he was gone.

Sighing, Tyrion leapt off his seat, exchanging it for the one across from Cersei.

"I am going to ask this once and only once: did you kill Robert?"

Cersei stopped writing.

She glared at him like one might to a servant who dared speak back, as if his very presence soiled everything in the room. But his dear sister always looked at him that way so it did not have the affect she intended.

Tyrion frowned. He hated having to be the serious one. "We are at war, the king is dead-"

"Joffrey is king."

Well, at least she was capable of speaking.

"Yes, Joffrey is king, and what a remarkable job he has done so far. He only destroyed our hope of regaining peace with the North."

They'd gotten the runner not long after leaving the war camp. Tyrion was grateful he didn't have to see their father's face that evening. Not even Kevan would be able to withstand it.

Cersei smirked, like he had said something foolish. "There will be no peace with the North, only their total surrender. It's what traitors deserve."

"Have you looked at a map recently, Sister? The North is a large place."

"Yes, a large, empty place filled with dog lords and farmers," Cersei replied, finally leaving the parchments on her desk be. "Why are you even here, Tyrion, having  _this_  discussion? There aren't any whores here to entertain you."

Tyrion sighed, wishing she hadn't mentioned his preferred company. He'd give anything to go back to Shae right then. They'd found her just outside his father's camp and she was the only thing he'd gotten from the whole miserable affair that didn't make him want to bash his brains in.

And Bronn.

Occasionally.

Instead, he took the letter his father had given him and slide it across the desk. The look that crossed his sister's face as she read the words was almost worth it.

"He can't be serious," Cersei said, crumpling the letter up and tossing it.

"Have you ever known our father to jest?"

"Father is the Hand, not you."

"And Father is busy fighting the war you started."

"That  _you_  started, Brother, or have you forgotten how you let yourself be captured? How you let Jaime get captured?"

How could he? Everyone was keenly intent on reminding him with every breath.

Cersei sat back, hand reaching for her own goblet. "What makes him believe you could do a better job than me?"

"Well, first off, I wouldn't have had Ned Stark executed."

He watched his sister's lip twitch before she moved to take a drink. So, that had not been part of the plan. He'd always known Joffrey was a cruel and unruly boy, but he'd never expected him to go so far. Then again, he'd hoped Robert would have had a few more years, given Joffrey time to mellow with age.

It seemed the boy king was the only one getting what he wanted.

"It doesn't matter," Cersei spoke after a while. "Ned Stark confessed to the realm that he was guilty. Every house in every corner of Westeros knows what he did."

"They know what he confessed as you held a knife to his daughter's throat," Tyrion replied, leaning on the desk. "This vendetta you have against Myra Stark is going to cost you."

"And what would you know? You haven't been here."

"You forget, Jaime is my brother too. He tells me things."

Something flashed in her eyes. Anger? Jealousy? He wouldn't know why. Their brother only ever had eyes for her, even when every maiden, unwed or otherwise, practically threw themselves at his feet. He acted as if no other woman in the realm existed.

Cersei never had been very good at repaying that kind of loyalty.

The conversation was starting to wear on Tyrion. It wasn't even the most hostile one he had ever shared with his sister, and he doubted future discussions would go quick as smoothly.

He needed to drink. He needed sleep. He needed Shae. And definitely not in that order.

"Tell me that you at least have the other Stark girls, Sansa and what's her name."

Cersei did not answer.

Tyrion blinked. "You  _do_  have them…"

His sister began to fidget. She never did that.

Tyrion stood and walked to the other side of the desk. He grabbed the armrest and looked up at Cersei until she was forced to meet his gaze.

"You mean to tell me that not only did you kill Lord Stark, but you lost our only means of bartering with his son. What is to keep Robb Stark from tearing this city apart?"

"Our father will, or do you doubt him too?"

"Do you remember the last time the Starks marched south when the king had wronged them? It didn't end well for the Targaryens; it won't end well for us."

Thoroughly displeased with how everything had gone, Tyrion decided to leave once and for all. The only issue was that he had to find his way out of Maegor's Holdfast and then climb to the top of the Tower of the Hand.

Perhaps Bronn could carry him.

"This is what you want, isn't it? To see our House ruined," Cersei said, her voice low but edged like glass. "You took Mother. You took Jaime. Which of us would you have fall next?"

Tyrion sighed, his hand on the door. "My dear sister, I love my family, even you. Perhaps one day you might see that."

There was nothing in his life he doubted more.

* * *

**Jaime**

Myra Stark had been brought into the dungeon two days ago, or what he thought was two days. She had leveled one hard glare in his direction, then sat in the far corner of her cell, where the light of the torch could not reach, bathing her in darkness. The only way Jaime knew she was actually still there, and that he had not gone mad from imprisonment, was the occasional shuffling that came from the cell, when she went to grab what little food they were provided or make water.

He'd nearly spoken up a dozen times, the words on his tongue, nearly free, but every time he had stopped. Something had felt wrong about it. Perhaps it was the manner in which he was going to speak, his usual, callous self, or perhaps he just understood all too well the desire to be left alone by everyone and everything.

Still, the silence was starting to irk him. Ever since their…confrontation, Jaime had been left alone in the dark, save for the guards who were more likely to stab him than speak with him. He knew nothing of the outside world, not of his father in the Riverlands or his sister in King's Landing; he knew nothing of Tyrion, his little brother left alone with a single sellsword in the middle of mountain clan territory. They could dead for all he knew, and the just Lord Stannis would keep him in the dark.

No wonder Ned Stark had been so desperate for his help. They were cut from the same drab, hypocritical cloth.

Jaime couldn't say what finally pushed him to speak, but when he did, his voice was nearly unrecognizable.

"Is Tyrion alive?"

The desperation in it sickened him.

It was silent for a long time. Jaime didn't believe Myra was asleep, especially since he had heard her moving not so long ago. She might have been ignoring him, which made sense in light of everything, but Jaime did not care for sense and deserved treatment. Her mother had taken his brother, the brother she herself declared innocent; she owed him an answer, on her honor as a Stark. He almost said as much until her soft voice echoed in the darkness.

"I don't know."

"You don't know?" Jaime repeated, anger rising. "Your father was only betting the entire realm on his survival. He should be screaming about it from the top of the Red Keep, as if it's the only thing keeping my father from burning the realm to the ground. It's not, by the way. He's doing it out of spite at this point."

The shuffling returned. Jaime glanced outside his cell, watching Myra's dark form stand and move to the bars. She clutched the iron pieces gently, looking at him. He must have been quite the sight; he hadn't bathed in weeks and stank something fierce. His hair was unruly, bits of straw stuck in the limp strands; his beard had grown out, and he thought he might be utterly unrecognizable.

"I'd say dear old Ned and Robert were conspiring to keep me here, but that doesn't account for you," Jaime continued. Once he started, the words poured out of him like a fountain, unleashing weeks' worth of frustration and the need to just say something. "What did you do to make Stannis so angry? Did you use the word less? He hates that word. Or maybe it was his wife's doing. You are a fairer sight than her. It's the ears. Maybe she thought you'd come to steal away another Baratheon from-"

"You don't know, do you?"

Jaime paused. He looked at Myra, truly looked at her. She wasn't angry, not in the least, there wasn't even a poor attempt at covering up any emotion. It was as if she hadn't heard any of his tirade, as if suddenly he wasn't the man who had tried to kill her brother. All she held in her eyes was pity, and a sadness, deep and consuming.

The kind only death brings.

"Who?" he asked, bolting upright, fear bringing energy to his weakened form. "Who was it?!"

Myra stepped back, his words slapping her. "King Robert is dead, murdered, and…"

He watched her shrink, the sadness taking control of her body. She recovered almost as quickly, however, a strange sort of calm coming over her as she looked to him again.

"And your bastard executed my father for it."

_Oh gods, Cersei, what have you done?_

Jaime leaned against the bars, letting the cold metal cool his heated face. Everything felt like it was beginning to spin. All that they had worked for, all that they had built, was unraveling, spiraling out of control. How could they ever hope to recover from this?

"Stannis has declared himself king. Renly has declared himself king. My  _brother_  has been crowned the King in the North," Myra continued, though the words washed over him with little meaning. He didn't care for kings or crowns; he didn't care for any of it. "And for my support of him, I have been declared a traitor. I'm to be executed."

She had laughed as she spoke, her voice cracking, as if her impending death was just another mishap in a series of terrible events. Jaime supposed he knew that all too well.

Myra looked at him, shaking her head. "It seems we're meant to be miserable together, Jaime Lannister."

* * *

Jaime wasn't certain how much time had passed since she last spoke. Perhaps she was still speaking even now, but he didn't care for what she had to say. It didn't matter.

The world outside was burning and he was locked away on this pathetic island, unable to defend those who needed him. Had he not told Cersei everyone who stood between them would burn? Were those not his words?

_Burn them all!_

He chose to ignore the voice that had echoed in his head for so many years; he only wanted to think about his brother and sister. The only two people in the world who mattered to him; the only people keeping him going in this wretched place.

The torch had all but gone out. It had been how he liked to tell time. The guards at night were less inclined to do anything for the poor souls they had to watch over.

There was a light, however, in the darkness, distant but drawing closer. Jaime thought he might be imagining it, until out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Myra standing.

"Shireen!" she hissed as the light approached. It revealed a young girl with a face deformed by greyscale. Stannis Baratheon's fabled daughter. The girl rekindled their dying torch and stood before Myra's cell. "What are you doing here? How-"

"Father is gone. He took his ships and left," the girl replied. "I won't let him hurt you. You're not my enemy."

Myra knelt before the girl, stroking her hair through the bars. "And you're not mine, Shireen, but this is dangerous. Your father-"

"Is wrong," Shireen stated flatly. "You're a good person. The gods don't like it when you kill good people."

"Shireen…"

"The guards won't find me. They're asleep." Shireen put her torch down and reached for something in her skirts. Something jingled, and suddenly there was metal glinting in the firelight. Keys. Jaime drew closer to the bars as he watched the girl experiment with each one, his heart skipping a beat as he heard the deep clunk of the cell unlocking.

Immediately, the girl threw herself into Myra's arms. They hugged briefly before Myra set her back down.

"You have to go now. You can't be seen with me. No matter what happens."

Shireen nodded. "I'll miss you."

"And I you. Now go!"

The girl and the torch disappeared back into the darkness.

Jaime watched as Myra grabbed the keys that had been left in the door. The girl didn't seem to have much concern with escaping as she turned the bits of metal over in her hands.

Then she looked over at him, and Jaime suddenly realized that his escape was not so certain.

She walked toward his cell, slow and cautious, like he might bite her. Her eyes were dark in the torchlight, studying him closely.

He almost laughed. "I wouldn't if I were you."

Myra nodded, almost imperceptive, then began trying keys in his door. "And that is why you are not me. I may not like you, Jaime, but I hate Stannis, and it would give me great pleasure to rob him of both his prizes."

Now that was something they could both agree upon.

The instant he heard the lock give way, Jaime was on his feet and out of his cell. He grabbed the torch and started in the direction Shireen had come from, Myra on his heels. They walked quick and silent, breath eager. Jaime could feel his heart pounding against his chest, a lion roaring so loud he was certain the guards would hear him.

If only he could get a sword in his hands.

The dungeon ended in stairs going upward. Jaime moved slowly up them, crouched. He handed back the torch to Myra. She understood his line of thinking, keeping the fire behind her.

Jaime held out a hand as he reached the top, halting Myra as he peered around the corner.

It seemed that Shireen had been telling the truth. The guards  _were_  asleep, both snoring softly, their cups drained and fallen from the table they rested their heads on.

He waved her in slowly. Wide-eyed, Myra took in the scene carefully, making certain she stepped in safe spots. Jaime grabbed a sword that was leaning against the wall. It was poorly kept, dull in places, but it would still kill a man, and that was all he needed.

The Lannister and the Stark fled quietly through the halls of Dragonstone. With the fleets gone, the guards were few. They would be focused on the perimeter rather than the interior. After all, it was an impenetrable castle on an island. What had they to fear?

When one unfortunate guard came upon them, Jaime shoved Myra back around the corner they had just turned before shoving his sword straight into the man's throat. Held in place by his blade and a hand gripping his shoulder, the guard simply stood there and gurgled as he choked on his own blood.

Jaime lowered his body slowly, eyes flitting back and forth down the hallway, looking for any other witnesses. When no one came, he drew his sword out, and wiped it on the man's cloak. A trail of blood could get them both killed.

He turned back to Myra, who was eying the corpse.

_Don't you dare pass out, girl._

As if reading his thoughts, her eyes met his and she nodded.

They continued, though Jaime did not know where he was going. He hadn't been in the proper state of mind when they'd first dragged him through Dragonstone; he wasn't entirely certain how they were to get off the island period. He wasn't much of a sailor, and he doubted the girl from landlocked Winterfell knew much either.

One step at a time.

He turned down another hall, only to have his hand grabbed by Myra. She pulled him another direction, hissing a 'this way' as she went. Jaime could only follow as the girl became the leader, turning this way and that as if she had the castle memorized.

They turned down one last hallway, which ended in a heavy, wooden door, and paused.

"Where are we?" Jaime asked, leaning against the wall.

"Servant's halls," Myra whispered, looking around. "They've an exit to the cliffs. Shireen showed me once."

"Of course she did."

They crept quietly through the halls, careful not to disturb those sleeping within. A maid stoked the fires near the kitchen, but was too preoccupied with her work to notice the two. Others were too bleary eyed or drunk to make them out from anyone else who worked there. Lords and ladies did not come to where they lived. They had nothing to fret over.

Myra eventually led them to a hallway with barred windows to the outside. The smell of the sea and salt was almost overwhelming, but Jaime pushed forward.

Both slammed into the iron door that kept them from freedom, struggling as the iron bolts groaned.

How in the seven hells did those two manage to get outside before?

When it gave way, both fell into the grass that covered most of cliffs. A stiff breeze blew across the island, whipping Jaime's hair against his face. The moon was rising in the distance, casting an eerie glow over the sea. It was oddly calm, or at least as calm as the sea could be on Dragonstone.

Jaime turned to Myra. She actually smiled.

Then an arrow struck the ground before them.

They were up and running in an instant, fleeing down the rapidly disappearing cliffs.

When he was a child, Jaime used to dive from the cliffs at Casterly Rock. Cersei would never go with him, no matter how many times he goaded her on. Those cliffs had been higher than the ones they stood on now. They could make it.

"I need you to trust me," Jaime said as they reached the end, eying the dark waves below. In the distance, he could hear the shouts of soldiers.

"I do," Myra replied without hesitation.

Jaime looked at her briefly before grabbing her hand.

They jumped.


	21. The Fugitives

**Myra**

The instant her body hit the water, all the air was knocked from her lungs. Her legs burned from the impact while the rest of her froze as she was engulfed by the deep waves of the Narrow Sea. For a few moments, which dragged for an eternity, Myra was stuck, her mind still attempting to comprehend what she had just done. The moon continued to rise slowly overhead, bathing the water in an ethereal glow, and she watched it, as if her life did not hang in the balance.

Then she began to swim.

Myra gasped as her head broke the surface. She turned one direction, then the next, trying to make sense of where she was, but everything looked different from below the cliff. She was afraid to move. Dragonstone's waters were notoriously dangerous. One wrong move and she could find herself dragged out to sea, or bashed against the jagged rocks that littered the shallows.

Treading water was growing difficult. Her dress was not one made for the South. It was from home, made of thick wool; it soaked up the seawater and was beginning to weigh her down.

"Jaime!" she cried, desperately searching the waters for a blonde head. "Jaime, where-!"

Her head dipped below the surface. It was only brief as a surge of fear gave her the strength to return, but the panic had set in. If she did not free herself, the dress was going to drown her.

Myra took a breath before letting herself sink. The world went quiet as she fumbled with the trappings, but the cold of the water had numbed her fingers and the movements were slow. She couldn't get anything to release.

She returned to the surface long enough to catch a breath before sinking again. It felt as if something was dragging her down towards the bottom. As a girl, she had feared the deep of the water. Old Nan liked to speak of bony hands that would claw at the living from the abyss. Would her tale be true?

Only her fingertips brushed the surface now.

She went into a frenzy, arms flailing wildly as she desperately clawed for the surface, but the harder she fought, the more tired she became. And then her lungs began to burn, begging her mouth to open and let in the sweet relief of air. But there was none to be found, only saltwater.

Then, in a brief moment of clarity, she remembered the blade.

To her unending relief, the Valyrian dagger was still within the folds of her dress. She wrenched the thing free and started to cut open the front of the bodice. But the edges of her vision were beginning to pulse, and her fingers were so clumsy.

When the dagger fell from her grasp, all Myra could do was watch.

Then Jaime grabbed it.

His free hand cupped her face. Through drifting strands of hair, Myra saw Jaime examining her. Soon after, she heard the dull sound of tearing fabric and felt him tug the wretched dress off.

Even now, she heard a scandalized gasp in the back of her mind as she was left exposed to him in nothing but her smallclothes.

Jaime wrapped his arm around her waist, dragging her limp body to the surface.

Coughing and sputtering, Myra took in air once more. How sweet it tasted.

She was vaguely aware of Jaime swimming them in some direction. Occasionally, she even tried to help, but her senses did not fully return until she felt sand beneath her feet. Though Jaime helped her up, Myra was able to stumble out of the sea on her own. She made it a few feet, well clear of the waves washing up on the beach, before collapsing on the sand. Jaime fell beside her, and there they lay for some time, surrounded by the sound of waves and their own panting.

If she never wore a dress again, she would die a happy woman.

At some point, Myra slowly sat up, her muscles still trembling, but stronger. She took in the area around them. With Dragonstone bathed in moonlight, it was relatively easy to make out where they were. The castle was some distance from them now, not so far that it was not still a looming figure before them, but enough so that they could at least catch their breath. She doubted armored guards were going to follow their precise route.

The beach was abandoned, and had no signs of life. No fishing nets or rowboats left for the evening. They might as well have been the only two people on the island.

Beside her, Jaime groaned. Myra watched him roll over, sand sticking to his unkempt beard while his hair was plastered to his face. He was a far cry from the golden knight of the Kingsguard, but once again, she found herself owing him. For the briefest of moments in the dungeon, she had truly considered leaving him there to rot, for Bran, for her father, for everything his family was doing to hers.

And where would that have gotten her? She wouldn't have made it out of the castle, much less come to the insane conclusion of jumping off the cliff to freedom. She'd be back in her cell at that very moment, or killed, or drowned. And it hadn't even been an hour yet.

Whether she liked it or not, Jaime Lannister was currently her best chance at seeing home again.

If he planned on staying with her, of course. She wouldn't if she were him; she would only slow him down. A woman who couldn't fend for herself, who couldn't even swim without nearly getting herself killed. What use was she?

But he saved her anyway.

"Thank you," Myra said softly.

"Well, you did let me out," Jaime replied, wincing as he sat up. He looked over at her, reminding Myra of exactly how underdressed she was. She wrapped her arms around herself, bringing her knees up. The wind was suddenly very cold. "I suppose that makes us even."

She didn't say anything, but the air became thick; she knew Jaime realized his poor choice of words.

Something glinted out of the corner of her eye.

Jaime was examining the dagger. She watched him turn the thing over in his hands, taking in the steel and the peculiar hilt. It would not take him long…

"This is it," he mumbled, grasping the hilt properly. It looked much smaller in his hands, yet deadlier. "This is what started everything."

"Not everything," Myra stated, looking at him. Jaime met her gaze, and she knew that she did not have to finish her thoughts. He was well aware of the role he played.

They might have stared at each other all night, locked in some sort of battle of wills, had Myra not noticed something behind him. Further down the beach, there was a light in the distance.

A search party.

"Jaime."

Perhaps it was the look on her face or the tone of her voice, but before he had even turned to see the approaching threat, Jaime already had the dagger in a defensive position.

"Get up the hill," he whispered, beginning to stand.

"You can't actually mean to fight them," Myra replied, grabbing at his arm as she stood. He was one man, unarmored with a dagger. Greatest sword in the Seven Kingdoms or not, his odds did not look favorable.

"Now is not the time to question me," he hissed, eyes never leaving the party. They were still fairly far off, the light of their torch obstructing their view of things in the distance. They'd have been better off without. "You said you trust me, so listen."

Myra hesitated for a moment before running up the beach. Sand gave way to grassy knolls that sloped gently toward the village on the far side of the island. Only a few dark rocks jutted from the sands, edges rounded by rain and wind, the last remnants of a fierce eruption some centuries ago.

Her shoes long lost, the soles of her feet bore a rare sort of pain as she scrambled over the sand and rock to the relative safety above. She remained silent, ignoring the pain. Something told her that she had far more trying days ahead.

At the top of the hill, Myra dropped to her stomach, keeping her head as low as possible as she inched to the edge to watch. She could not have been more than eight feet above the beach. If the search party bothered to look, her dark form would have stood out against the pale blades of grass.

She supposed that was where Jaime came in.

The man himself had yet to move. As the party approached, three men in total, dressed in chainmail armor and armed to the teeth, Jaime stood his ground, he in nothing more than a tunic and leggings, his feet also painfully bare. She could not see the dagger.

Myra took a deep breath.

_I trust him. I trust him. I-_

"You there!" shouted the closest guard as he spotted him. Immediately, the man unsheathed his sword, walking toward Jaime. When he finally came to a halt, the tip of the blade hovered just short of his neck.

By the gods, she was about to watch Jaime Lannister die.

She thought to shout something, distract the guards for a moment so Jaime could fight his way out, but something kept the words at bay. Myra had the distinct feeling that Jaime would be furious if she tried anything.

So, she watched.

And prayed.

"Where is the girl?"

Jaime shrugged. "Bottom of the sea, I imagine. It seemed like a heavy dress."

The guard pushed the sword closer. Jaime leaned back, and Myra imagined he looked rather offended by it.

"Wrong answer," the guard replied. His voice was deep, but in the false way that gave men a sort of bravado that did nothing more than get them killed. He actually believed he could intimidate the Lion of Lannister.

"Well, actually, it's the right one seeing as how she's dead."

Others take him, he lied like one of her brothers.

The guard turned back to the others, who had lingered behind some feet. One had his hand on the hilt of his sword, but had yet to draw. The other just held the torch.

"Search the-"

It happened in an instant.

Jaime brought the dagger up in his right hand, batting away the sword while he closed the gap between him and the guard with his left. He punched the man, leaving him to stagger before finishing him by shoving the dagger into his eye. The man stood absolutely still for a moment before collapsing into the sand, dead.

Grabbing the sword from his body, Jaime began to twirl the blade while the other members of the party composed themselves. Then he outstretched his arms, as if inviting them. This was how her brothers acted when they were children with wooden swords, and here was a member of the Kingsguard doing the same with his own life.

The third guard dropped his torch, and together the remaining men unsheathed their swords. They ran at him, hard and heavy, but at least in unison. Jaime dropped back into a defensive position, his sword pointed outward, his body back, side face, but weight on the balls of his feet as if he were about to spring. Her brother, Robb, had tried to fight like that once, but he preferred to properly square off against his enemy, both shoulders facing them. It made for a much larger target, and that was something the Lannister could clearly not afford.

The second guard swung his sword downward, while the third swung up, both clearly intent on cutting him in two. Timing everything just right, Myra watched as Jaime blocked the upswing with his sword while sidestepping the downswing, placing himself precisely between both soldiers. Keeping his momentum moving forward, Jaime spun, bringing his sword across the neck of the second guard whose own blade had been temporarily lodged in the wet sand. He fell with a choking noise and the beach turned red.

Myra remembered that day at the Red Keep, when she and Syrena had watched him practice. It had been brutal and unrefined, but even then there had been a sort of beauty in the movements. Now, it seemed to her, he fought even better, as if the opportunity to kill people was what drove him. It could have been that his life was on the line, but she did not believe that was it. There was something about war that made men long for it. Why else would they always speak of it?

Jaime whirled on the last guard, who barely got his sword up in time to protect him. It hardly mattered. The Lannister knocked the sword out of his grasp in the next hit, and drove the blade deep into the man's gut, practically lifting him from the ground, before sliding the sword out and letting his body collapse.

And then it was over.

Myra could scarcely move.

Her hands gripped whatever grass was nearby with white knuckles, crushing the little blades until they broke off. She kept staring that that tiny section of beach, and the man who had just murdered three armed guards without missing a beat. He casually walked among the bodies, combing through their armor as if those men weren't just alive and breathing. They might have had families, had children.

She remembered the guard in the castle who Jaime had easily slain. He was a boy barely older than her. And she remembered Ser Hugh, so violently killed and easily forgotten.

It was wrong.

_This_ was wrong.

But this was the way of the world now, wasn't it? The way of her world. Was Robb not doing this right now as he led an army south? Did her father not do this when he did the very same years ago?

All her life she had known liars and killers, but to her they had always been fathers and brothers and decent men, and she had been ignorant enough to believe they could be nothing but.

Stannis Baratheon had been right. She was still just a child.

When Myra finally gathered her wits and returned to the beach, Jaime was leaning over the first guard. She watched him pull the dagger from the man's eye. Blood had never bothered her, but the sight made her stomach roll nonetheless.

"Did you enjoy it?" she found herself asking, the words tumbling out without her permission. She could have slapped herself.

"Not much is sweeter than a good killing," Jaime replied, standing up. He seemed more relieved to her than he had in days. It disturbed her. "Your father enjoyed it just as much as I do. Try not to tell yourself otherwise."

"Don't speak ill of the dead." Myra felt her throat catch on the last word.

"Would you rather I lie?" he asked, removing his tunic. "Doesn't seem very honorable."

Myra blinked rapidly as she was suddenly faced with a half-naked Jaime Lannister.

"Wh-what are you doing?"

"I certainly don't plan on walking everywhere like this. It's bound to attract attention," Jaime answered, offering the shirt to her. "Plus, I imagine you're cold. You certainly look it."

Heat rising in her cheeks as Myra was, once again, made painfully aware of how she was dressed, she crossed her arms quickly. Ignoring the way Jaime smirked as she practically tore the garment from his grasp, she turned around to throw it on. The brown fabric was coarse and starting to harden from its exposure to the seawater, not to mention it smelled terrible, but it blocked the wind and certainly made her feel better about her clothing situation.

The horizon was beginning to lighten when Jaime finished. Dressed in Baratheon armor, he looked even less like himself. The colors did not seem right on him. She watched him attach the Valyrian dagger to his belt before moving to follow him, desperately trying to forget the bodies they had left unceremoniously on the beach.

In silence, the Lannister and the Stark made their way to the village.

* * *

**Sansa**

Take a left at the broken red building.

Go down the stairs. Follow the path.

Ignore the man trying to sell meat. It's rat.

The door on the right with the cracked frame.

Sansa let out a small breath of relief when she returned to the relative safety of her hovel. While she had gained the courage to venture on her own out in Flea Bottom and had taught herself the way back, it never failed to fill her with a sort of joy to return to something familiar. No, it was not the luxurious spaces she had come to know as a child, a keep with great walls and servants to help her every need, and she could never call it home, but there was comfort to be found in isolation. The Red Keep may have had baths and soft beds, but it also had Joffrey, and faced with that decision, Sansa knew which place she would pick.

The days following her father's death had blurred together in her memory. Syrena had told her it had been a week before she even looked her in the eye again. Sansa could not recall what she had done in that time. Her mind had gone blank. The few times she had a solid grasp of things, she attempted to remember something of her father, but every memory ended the same: with his head on a butcher's block. Even so, hindsight made the past painful. Sansa recalled with utter clarity how ungrateful to him she had been, how spoiled and rotten and childish she had been. She remembered asking her mother to make him Hand of the King, all so she could marry a stupid boy who would kill her father without a second thought.

Then she would remember the crowd on that horrid day, how they cheered when Joffrey called for his death, how their shouts grew as his head had toppled to the ground. They knew nothing of what happened, of how good her father was, of how he saved them from a terrible king not so long ago, of how he would never kill Robert. They were so ignorant and so foolish, just as she had been.

She did not want to be a fool anymore.

Sansa dropped the small bag she carried on the table. An apple rolled out and a loaf of bread, what things she could afford with the money Syrena gave her. Normally, the handmaiden, who was certainly more than a handmaiden, would bring food for her, but the woman still served Cersei and tended to be gone for long periods. So, out of desperation, Sansa adjusted.

When rats ate all her food one night, Sansa learned to place what she had left on a high shelf, covered, with something heavy on top. If it rained, she stuck a small vase outside, because the rainwater was far cleaner that anything she would find in the wells. It was best to leave at dawn and dusk, midday was too hot, and the sun would ruin her hair.

She walked to her small rain-filled vase, taking in her tiny reflection. Syrena had dyed her hair some time back, and Sansa had cried about it all the while, but over time, the dark waves had grown on her. She thought they made her look more like Myra.

There was another person she had never been kind to. Always about herself, poor, poor Sansa.

She hoped Myra was alright, and back home.

She even hoped Arya was okay.

Syrena had searched for her sister for two days, but the youngest girl could not be found. Arya always had been good at that, disappearing when people needed to find her most. The handmaiden had caught word of a man from the Night's Watch leaving the city with a group of young recruits. Sansa determined then that her sister had found a way to go with them. People were always mistaking her for a little boy, and this way, she could see Jon again.

Arya would like that.

Sansa sat at the table and began to sew. It was all she had done recently. She sewed the ragged dress she had been forced to wear (inside the lining was an outline of a wolf now), and she sewed the soiled cloak she had only just managed to clean. It had left her hands raw and stinging, but the fabric no longer stank. She sewed whatever garments Syrena brought her, more for her entertainment than the handmaiden's need she discovered rather quickly. They were silky things that Sansa longed to wear, and she found herself running her hands along the smooth pieces, a satisfied hum on her tongue, but then she would stop. Pretty things weren't for her anymore.

Sometimes, she pretended her needle was a tiny sword, stabbing away at Joffrey over and over again. Sometimes, it was the Queen, sometimes Ilyn Payne. She sewed their lips together and poked out their eyes.

To think she had once wanted to sew little lions.

The door opened. It used to make her jump. Now, she hardly looked in its direction.

"You've certainly grown comfortable," Syrena mused, sitting across from Sansa. The handmaiden no longer wore the silks of a servant in the Red Keep. She wore a cheap tunic and leggings. The boots on her feet were caked in dirt. The woman had been somewhere.

Sansa shrugged, continuing to sew. "When am I going to leave?"

Syrena sighed. "You ask that every time we see one another, and my answer is always the same."

She didn't know; she never knew. The woman asked Sansa to trust her but all she could give her was the same answers everyone else in her life had. When was it going to be different?

"You promised Myra you would look out for me," Sansa started, putting down her sewing. "How am I supposed to stay safe here?"

Safe in King's Landing, blocks away from where her father had lost his life. It sounded like a cruel jest, a punishment for everything she had done. Perhaps it was.

"My vow to your sister is not the only one I must uphold," Syrena replied, grabbing the apple on the table and taking a bite. She frowned in displeasure. "Too sweet."

"Like your vow to Cersei?"

She watched Syrena's eyes narrow. Over the time they had been together, Sansa had taken to watching her, if only because she had nothing else to do. Syrena was a good liar. She had to be given everything she had done so far, but when she was truly angry, her whole demeanor changed. She wasn't a handmaiden any longer, or even just the beautiful woman who had rescued her, but something else altogether. Harsh, terrifying, not unlike when she murdered the man of the City's Watch.

Syrena looked like that woman at that very moment.

Sansa felt her head tilt, a puzzle fitting together. "You don't work for the Queen, do you? I mean, you do, but she isn't the one you really answer to."

The look disappeared almost instantly. Suddenly, Syrena was looking at Sansa in a new light.

Then she smiled. "Perhaps you are not so helpless after all."

As much as Sansa enjoyed the compliment, as backhanded as it felt, she was now only more confused. If the Queen's own handmaiden wasn't actually working for her, who was she working for? Suddenly, she felt worse off than before.

"Do you work for Lord Baelish?" she asked, grasping. Littlefinger had been a strange man, but not unkind to her. He said he had known her mother, and mentioned how much they had looked alike. She supposed it had been a compliment of sorts, but it had not felt that way. He had mentioned once that a lot of people worked for him, telling him all sorts of things. A handmaiden to the Queen would certainly know a lot.

Syrena snorted. "Only a fool would work for Littlefinger. He's a mind for power and little else. Even his friends are regarded as foes."

"Then who do you work for?"

There was that smile again, the one her father and mother and sister gave her so often. She wasn't going to get her answer.

"That is an answer for a different time."

"What time?" Sansa asked, feeling herself getting angry. "You said it yourself, you don't even know when I am going to leave. You expect me to trust you, but all you have done is thrown me in this little room and left me to fend for myself. You tell me I'm safe, but I'm still in King's Landing. Someone is bound to recognize me at some point. And now, you won't even tell me whose side you're on. For all I know, you're waiting to sell me as a slave."

Syrena listened to her small rant with an indifferent expression, though Sansa could see the muscles in her jaw tightening.

"Have you ever kept a secret?" she finally asked, turning to face Sansa properly. Her eyes had grown darker. "I don't mean something your sister did not want your mother to know. I mean the kind that holds life and death in balance, which men would gouge your eyes out in an instant for. There is no greater pain in the world than holding knowledge that someone else wants, and it is not something you would survive."

Sansa felt a chill crawl up her spine, but she kept her eyes on Syrena nonetheless. "You don't know what I can survive."

The smile returned.

"Oh child, yes I do."

* * *

**Jaime**

The villagers of Dragonstone were a depressing lot. They wore ragged clothes and deep frowns, and eyed him the way one might a trespasser on their land. He'd recalled a maester once calling some of the people 'dragonseeds,' since the Targaryens were about as keen to keep their hands off the smallfolk as anyone else. It was just another pathetic reminder of how far their house had fallen.

To be honest, he was surprised Robert hadn't razed the whole place to the ground. He supposed the man wouldn't be doing much of anything anymore though. Decomposing maybe, along with Ned Stark.

Sighing, Jaime glanced over his shoulder. He'd left Myra hiding behind a small hill before entering the village. Trying to explain why he was walking around with an unkempt woman was not an obstacle he needed that morning, but he was half-convinced he'd turn around to find her trailing behind him anyway. Not for her safety's sake, no, she never seemed overly concerned about that until it was far too late, but Myra Stark might have been utterly convinced that he would do something stupid. The look on her face when he told her to stay behind had told him that much.

He couldn't say she was wrong in that regard, either.

The fight on the beach had felt good, giving his body that rush he relished, but hindsight told him it was a foolish move on his part. The guards never stood a chance of beating him, that much he knew, but had one decided to run instead or cry out a warning, their little escape would have been cut woefully short.

But he'd  _needed_ that fight. He'd needed to hold someone's life in his hands, to have that control once again restored to him. It had been weeks of nothing but suffering at the hands of someone else, and feeling that freedom retrun was nearly an ecstasy.

Most of the village was abandoned so late in the morning, save for fishwives and men too old to be of much use. The husbands and strong-armed lads had departed just before the sun rose on their fishing boats and would probably not return until it began to set. It was ill timing for them. They could not afford to wait that long. The place would be swarming with Stannis' men in no time.

He chanced a glance at the waterfront, which was about as depressing to look at as everything else in the area. Rickety, rotting planks made up the docks. Covered in mollusks and algae, they looked ready to sink into the sea with the next tide. A few baskets littered the area, a pole or two, and a single rowboat overturned in the sand. Jaime did not enjoy the idea of having to row to the mainland, but at some point it might become necessary.

"How much do you have?"

Jaime turned in an instant, his sword half drawn. Behind him stood an older man, undoubtedly another fisherman, with long, pale hair pulled neatly back and teeth nearly as black as the moth-eaten cloak he wore. His clothes were too big for him and his hands had begun to turn inward on themselves from a bone affliction, but there was a brightness in his eyes still, an intelligence.

"Excuse me?" Jaime asked, releasing his sword. Cutting through every person he saw wasn't about to solve any of his problems, unfortunately.

"A man like you is looking for a way out," the man continued, shuffling forward. The way he leaned on one side suggested one of his legs wasn't real. "The King's guards don't come down here, not 'less they have to. Stannis keeps to himself and we keep to ours. It's the way things have been here for some time. You're the first guard I've seen in a month, only one alone though."

Inwardly, Jaime groaned. Couldn't one damn thing go right in this bloody place?

"Are you suggesting that I'm impersonating one of the King's men?" Jaime asked, drawing himself up. "There are harsh consequences for such accusations."

"Not suggesting, I'm saying," the man replied with a grin, not intimidated in the least. Some of his teeth weren't black. They were just missing. "My son's a better liar than you, an' he's dead."

Right, cut through everyone it was.

Jaime unsheathed his sword, stepping closer. "Well, then if I'm not who I say I am, killing you shouldn't be a problem for me."

The fisherman's smile didn't diminish in the slightest. "Good luck getting off the island then. Keep my oars at home. You'll never find them before the actual soldiers come."

At this point, Jaime just wanted to kill him so he wouldn't have to look at that ugly grin anymore.

He sighed, defeated. "I have money."

"On you?"

"No."

"Then you don't have money."

Jaime felt his eyes narrow. "I know people with money. Ever heard of the Lannisters? We're very good with our debts."

"You got a Lannister on the mainland?"

"King's Landing."

The fisherman snorted. "Ain't no one going that far. War's going there. Rather my boat capsize in friendlier waters."

He felt his hand grip the hilt of the sword tighter. This was getting him nowhere.

Suddenly, he saw the fisherman's eyes go wide as he began to examine something up and down. Jaime did not trust the look that crossed his face.

"Give me a few moments with that one, and I'll take you to shore."

He knew what was behind him before he turned. Myra Stark had finally decided to follow. Her arms were crossed over herself as she stumbled along the sand, trying to keep her feet from catching on the driftwood that littered the beach.

Instantly, Jaime launched himself at the fisherman. He grabbed the man by the shoulder, holding him still as he thrust the sword toward him. Fortunately for the man, he managed to stop himself just short of gutting him below the ribcage.

"Mind your tongue or lose it."

The damn fool was still smiling. "What she's got between her legs worth more than your life?"

He pushed the blade forward ever so slightly. "Certainly worth more than yours."

"Jaime, what are you doing?" Myra asked as she caught up. She put her hands on his sword arm, and he allowed her to pull him back.

"I thought I told you to stay hidden."

"There were guards coming."

"How many?"

"Six, at least."

Jaime sighed. That was beginning to press his luck, even with armor and a proper sword. They needed to leave now or they'd never see anything other than Dragonstone ever again.

The fisherman seemed to realize this, eyes once again raking over Myra's poorly dressed form. "Don't s'pose you have money, or some other kind of payment?"

He watched the realization of what the man was implying dawn on Myra. She briefly looked offended that a man of his station, or any man in general, would dare ask her such a thing, but then her anger faded into that serene mask he had become strangely familiar with. The calm before the storm. Men were going to come to fear that look.

Jaime saw her glance over at his belt. With one hand on his sword and the other anchoring the man in place, he could not stop her as she reached for the Valyrian dagger and drew it. He half thought she was about to stab the man herself, until she grasped the blade in her hand and offered the fisherman the hilt.

"Dragonbone and Valyrian steel. It's worth more than your entire village."

"Not to mention your life," Jaime added, squeezing the man's shoulder as if he needed a reminder of the position he was in.

The man nodded, though that did not stop him from appearing disappointed that he did not get another prize.

Slowly, Jaime let the man go, and watched as he walked over to the rowboat. With one swift heave, the man turned it over, revealing two oars half-buried in the sand.

Seven hells, how he hated Dragonstone.

* * *

It was one of the smallest boats Jaime had ever been on. Then again, no son of Tywin Lannister traveled in anything less than excessive. The Lannisters had an image to maintain after all.

What his father might have thought upon seeing him on this tiny fishing boat equally entertained and unnerved him.

At least they hadn't been stuck in the rowboat with the man. He'd rowed them to a nearby bay, where his ramshackle boat was anchored down, relatively safe from the shifting winds and tide. Its sail was full of poorly sewn patchwork and the wood was rotting in several places, but it floated and was more than enough to get them to the mainland.

Somehow, the boat managed to have a tiny cabin below deck. Myra was there at the moment, changing into some clothes that had belonged to the man's dead son. He'd offered her an oddly well-made dress at first, and Jaime had smirked at how green her face had turned. Whether it was over who had worn the dress last or her terrible last experience with one, he couldn't say. Some combination of the two probably.

Jaime watched the fisherman as he sailed the boat, making sure his eyes stayed up. He had no doubts the man knew about a hole or two in the woodwork.

Why it mattered, he didn't know. He supposed he never cared for how some men leered at others; he certainly never cared for how some looked at Cersei. He'd have killed them himself if she hadn't insisted she could handle them.

Myra Stark hadn't seemed like the type who could handle others, though he was starting to wonder if he wasn't wrong.

As if sensing that his thoughts had turned to her, Myra emerged from below the ship. She wore breeches and a pair of worn, leather boots. A thick, green, wool-spun tunic that fell nearly halfway down her thighs had been cinched around her waist by a large belt in order to keep the thing from completely engulfing her. She'd also braided her hair, and was playing with the ends, clearly uncomfortable on the boat.

Jaime had done away with the armor, leaving it to sink to the bottom of the sea. It was bulky, heavy, and loud, everything they needed to not be if they were going to survive whatever was ahead of them. The fisherman had given him a jacket. It had a hole in the side, but he would survive.

His hand, he noticed, was toying with the hilt of his sword much like Myra did her hair.

She wasn't the only nervous one.

"Where is he taking us?" she asked, leaning on the railing beside him, careful to keep her voice down.

Jaime turned to face the water, sighing. "The closest piece of shore, I imagine."

"No further?"

"Being in our company probably isn't advisable if you want to keep your head on your shoulders," he replied. "We're lucky he took us up on the deal at all."

"No thanks to you."

Jaime met her gaze. "I'm sorry, would you rather fuck him? I'm sure we still have time to arrange that."

Myra blinked, oddly unoffended. "You attacked him because he suggested using me?"

Turning back away, Jaime knew he told her more than he meant to.

He heard her sigh. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't antagonize you. I owe you my life and then some."

Yes, he had saved her from drowning and from the guards, but she had also let him out of the cell and had the presence of mind to use the dagger to get them off the island. He'd have gotten himself captured by now on his own. They were on equal ground if anything.

But Jaime didn't say that.

They sat in silence for some time, listening to the waves and sloshing of water against the boat. Myra had taken to watching the horizon, a thoughtful look on her face. Her hands had left the braid alone.

"Where do we go?"

"King's Landing, of course," Jaime said without hesitation.

Now Myra did look offended as she practically jumped off the rail. "I'm not going back there."

"You're more than welcome to wander the Crownlands on your own."

What the fisherman had said still nagged at him. The war was heading to King's Landing. With Stannis and his fleet gone, Jaime had no doubt the man would soon attack the capital. They had no ships to defend themselves with, and with his father tied up in the Riverlands, King's Landing made for easy pickings.

Cersei would never leave the capital, so he would have to come to her. He would defend her until his last breath. It was what he was born to do.

"Half of the Crownlands have sworn loyalty to Stannis," Myra replied, her arms crossed. "They'll be looking for you, and the road to King's Landing is the first place they'll search."

Jaime felt his eyes narrow as he looked back at her.

She returned the gesture. "Tell me I'm wrong."

He didn't.

He couldn't.

And he hated that.

So, Jaime did what he did best: he pushed back.

"You know, I preferred it when you were too scared of everyone to talk back."

Myra didn't hesitate. "And I preferred it when my brother could walk, but neither of us are getting what we want."

Jaime could swear Tyrion was laughing at him from somewhere.

"Then where do  _you_  suggest we go?" he snapped, tired of being in the wrong.

"We could go north."

How unsurprising.

"Well, unless you have another dagger to barter for a boat, we'd have to walk," Jaime started, turning to her. "North of here is the Vale, which is in the middle of the mountains surrounded by clans of barbarians who won't hesitate to murder and rape you, probably in that order too. And if we manage to make it that far, Lysa Arryn will promptly throw me out the Moon Door, so as you can see, I'm not exactly thrilled at the prospect of returning there."

Myra had pressed her lips together, looking about as thrilled with their situation as he felt.

He hoped Catelyn knew how much she had destroyed things for her daughter; he hoped she felt it with every breath she took.

Mostly because he was starting to feel how much he had destroyed everything for himself.

"So…we head west," Myra murmured, looking at the looming shore. "Toward the war."

"And my father."

"Or my brother."

They glared at each other, the Lion and the Wolf, at war with one another, but in desperate need of the other's help.

When the fisherman finally brought them to shore, some distance from any village, their antagonistic attitudes had all but vanished. Jaime looked to Myra as she stared at the distant tree line, her face suddenly pale and frightful. Arguing about what they would do had been one thing. Actually being faced with it was quite another.

Jaime reached out to her, his hand hovering just above her shoulder before he thought better of it. Instead, he walked past her, brushing her arm slightly.

"C'mon," he said, his voice frightfully serious. "We don't have much light left, and we should find shelter before we lose it."

"Jaime," she called, causing him to turn. "I meant what I said earlier. I do trust you."

He wanted to ask why. After everything he had done, to her brother, to her father, why did she trust him? But the sincerity in her gaze kept his mouth closed.

Did the reason ever matter in the end? It hadn't for him; it hadn't for anyone who ever looked at him.

It had for her though.

Jaime kept silent and nodded, watching as she caught up to him. Together, they entered the forest, trekking toward an uncertain future.


	22. The Journey

**Myra**

_She was searching for something._

_Far away. Yes, so very, very far away, but closer than before. There were no walls or water, not this time._

_But still so far. Her sisters would not like it, but they would listen. They always did._

_Only then could they return to Brother. Only then._

Myra blinked against the sunlight as it broke through the trees, interrupting her ruminations. She'd had strange dreams for a long time now, though they were often dark and forgotten by dawn, but ever since she had escaped with Jaime, the clarity of them was almost overwhelming. A forest in the night, and sounds so distinct, she might have actually been awake.

And the words in her mind. They were not spoken. There was no voice. They were almost…perceived by her, as if instinct was telling her how someone else was thinking.

Shaking her head, Myra pushed the thoughts away entirely. There were far more real and dangerous things in the waking world that she needed to worry over, not least of which was the man sitting across the fire from her.

It had been two days since they left Dragonstone, and what supplies they had taken from the fisherman had dwindled to near nothing, not that it had been much to begin with. Some salted fish, dried fruit, some other salted meat that she preferred not to know the origin of. It was a far cry from the meals she was used to, but a small price to pay for the freedom she had gained.

Fortunately for the two of them, Jaime was not like many southern lords she had come to know in King's Landing. Where men like Renly or Littlefinger would have been completely out of their element lost in the forests of the Crownlands, Jaime had taken to it in stride. He knew how to hunt and had painstakingly killed a couple rabbits, which he was currently skinning in silence. She wasn't sure if that was just how he worked, or if he was ignoring her; she supposed it didn't matter. They had nothing to talk about.

Much to his chagrin, they were currently traveling north, although it was only until they hit water again. The Bay of Crabs was to be their guide. Once they hit the shore, they would turn westward. Travel along the waterway would be dangerous, but it was better than wandering aimlessly through the trees.

That had been her suggestion, and was really the only thing she had contributed to their journey thus far.

Myra inched closer to the fire, which Jaime had built, and drew her knees in. They had no cloaks to speak of, so she had awoken freezing and covered in dew. She wanted to be dry before they set out again, and sat as close as she dared, all while watching Jaime through the flames.

She wondered, and feared, whom they would find first. If it was Lannister forces, Lord Tywin would undoubtedly have her sent right back to King's Landing, where she could play the role of hostage for another king, only this time she would have no chance of escaping. If they found her brother's men, Myra could not be entirely certain if Jaime wouldn't use her as a means of escape. Yes, he had been kind and saved her life many times, but at the end of the day, she was a Stark, and the enemy. If it meant staving off capture, Myra did not doubt that he would put a blade to her throat.

And some small part of her could not blame him for it.

Unable to sit useless anymore, Myra stood and moved to the other side of the fire. Jaime was currently working on the second rabbit, ripping its skin off the muscle with a sickening tearing sound. She paid no mind to it. The hunting dogs back home had done far worse to little creatures.

Sitting next to Jaime, Myra grabbed the bloody carcass of the first rabbit and tossed it onto a slab of rock she had put in the fire earlier. The meat began to sizzle almost instantly and the smell made her remember just how hungry she actually was. She grabbed a small stick, quickly checked it for insects, and began to move the rabbit around. They were lean creatures and too long in one spot would burn the meat.

Glancing to the side, she noticed Jaime looking curiously at her.

"What?" she asked. It was the first she had spoken in nearly a day, she realized.

"You can cook."

Myra snorted. "I'm a woman, aren't I?"

She could practically hear Jaime's eye roll as he went back to skinning the rabbit. "Ladies of great houses don't learn how to cook little animals on rocks."

"This one did."

And then it was back to silence.

She wondered if it would be like this the entire way; she wasn't exactly attention starved, but their journey could very well take weeks, and the silence would eventually eat away at her. What few conversations she'd held with the man, however, had been out of some sort of necessity. Jaime Lannister was not the kind of man one just struck up casual conversation with. What would they talk about anyway? How their families hated one another? How they were currently killing one another?

How he'd pushed her brother from the broken tower?

Myra sighed, flipping the rabbit over as Jaime added his. She could not think about that now. Whatever past crimes Jaime had committed, they had to mean nothing to her, or they would never survive the journey together.

The lone wolf dies…

But could a wolf survive with a lion?

A twig snapped.

Jaime was up in an instant, sword half drawn. Instinctively, Myra moved behind him, waiting for whatever order he would give her. This was his element, after all.

But both found themselves relaxing ever so slightly as the origin of the noise presented itself.

It was a horse.

This creature, however, was far from relaxed. It was saddled, the bags pierced with arrows. A few more were lodged in its flank. Its ears were flat against its head, eyes wide, nostrils flaring with the smallest flecks of blood on the skin. The horse had been running, hard. If they were lucky, wherever it had gotten those wounds was miles away from them.

But Myra was slowly beginning to understand that whatever sort of luck surrounded her and Jaime was far from the good kind.

When Jaime dared to take a step forward, the creature bolted. They watched it gallop into the distant trees and disappear.

"Put out the fire," Jaime whispered, hand still on the hilt of his sword as he began to watch the surrounding area warily. "We have to go."

Having learned not to hesitate back on Dragonstone, Myra immediately dropped to her knees and began to shovel dirt onto their fire with her hands, ignoring how their food was suddenly bathed in the stuff. Still, she grabbed a handful as they all but ran from the area. A bit of dirt in her food was better than an empty stomach.

* * *

It was midday when Jaime and Myra finally relaxed. They had doubled back on their path a few times just in case, and were now steadily heading north once more.

Myra vaguely recalled looking at a map of the area once, Crackclaw Point it had been called, when she studied with Maester Luwin. It had seemed such a small peninsula at the time, but the further they traveled with nothing but forest to greet them, the more Myra was aware of how large the world truly was. It made the journey from Winterfell feel like the blink of an eye in comparison.

She supposed this wasn't what her mother had been referring to when she encouraged her to travel south.

Gods, she hoped her mother got back to Winterfell. She hoped she wasn't alone to worry about her children and husband; she hoped Bran could get a smile from her and Rickon could distract her with all his antics.

If only Robb could be there with her too.

But then she would be destined to return to King's Landing, and Myra needed that little bit of hope to get her through.

Jaime had finally released his sword, and was currently using his hand's newfound freedom to constantly pull his hair from his face. Myra had been watching for some time, a smirk growing. There was just something so human about the gesture. Here was the Lion of Lannister, famed knight of the Kingsguard, fumbling with his hair like a little girl.

Robb and Jon never had that issue. Their hair was so curly, they could go days without taking a brush to it and no one would know the difference, except her mother of course. Theon was not quite as lucky, however, and both she and Robb had teased the Greyjoy mercilessly over it. Jon wouldn't bother, only because it lead to more trouble than it was worth.

Oh Jon. Was it selfish to hope he had been told nothing of what was happening?

Her traveling companion tucked another stray hair behind his ear, only for it to fall immediately back into his face. She heard him sigh and could not help herself.

"Perhaps you should cut it."

"What?"

"Your hair. It's clearly bothering you," she replied, falling into step beside him. "People would be less likely to recognize you too."

Though he was hardly recognizable now. Beard aside, his blonde locks seemed to have withered, taking on a dull brown look instead. He'd grown thinner too, the beard hardly covering how his cheeks had hollowed. But, he still had his demeanor, the way he spoke, the way he stood, there was an air of importance around him that people were bound to take notice of. Once word got out they were missing, it might become downright dangerous. As much as she'd like to see people again, perhaps they were better off without.

"If that's the case, maybe we should cut yours," Jaime offered, turning to her. "Try to make you look more like a boy, though I guess not everything can be helped."

Myra felt her eyes narrow at his knowing glance to her chest.

Theon indeed.

They continued on in silence, Jaime having kept his hands firmly at his side since their small exchange. Myra took that as a victory, and felt decidedly better about the day despite the hunger once again gnawing at her insides. Perhaps they would find a creek. They didn't have water skins and could use the break.

When Jaime stopped at the crest of a hill, Myra froze in her tracks. She watched him turn his head slowly, taking in their surroundings, his hand on the sword hilt once more.

"What is it?" she whispered, looking around for herself. All she saw was endless rows of silent trees. There weren't even any birds chirping, which might have concerned her if the forest had not been that way since the beginning. It seemed even the wildlife could not tolerate Stannis.

"Stay here," was all he said before descending the hill, out of her sight.

Myra frowned, wishing she had more to go on. She was hardly alone, but given that Jaime was completely out of her line of sight, it felt as though he was on the other side of the country rather than a hill. It made her nervous. The memory of the horse was fresh in her mind.

So, against her better nature, she disobeyed, climbing the hill and crossing to the other side.

Almost immediately, she wished she hadn't.

The hill flanked a road, the first she had seen since leaving King's Landing, but it wasn't empty. Two wagons sat in the middle, both uncovered, one overturned. The mules that had been pulling them were still tied to the vehicles, lying in pools of blood.

Scattered around them were the bodies.

Men and women, young and old, were lying on the ground in various unnatural positions and states of dress. One woman had the front of her corset torn open, leaving her exposed for the entire world to see as her eyes stared unseeing at the sky above. A man was facedown in the dirt, a knife in his back. Another was on the edge of the forest, an arrow in his skull, a failed attempt at escape.

But it was the girl her eyes focused on.

She was such a small thing, no older than Rickon if she had to guess, with a head full of beautiful blonde curls and freckles that streaked across her nose. On the ground beside her hand was a simple doll made of sticks, perhaps put together by her mother, because it was all they could afford.

They'd slit her throat, and left her to die in the dirt.

Myra approached the child, kneeling beside her. Her hand reached out to touch the girl, but some unseen force prevented her from doing so. Lamely, it hovered above the girl's head before falling back to her side. What was there to do for her now? Her suffering was gone, as was everything else.

"What are you doing?" she heard Jaime hiss from behind her. "I told you to-"

She didn't look up at him, her eyes could not leave the girl, but she heard him sigh. It was soft, sad perhaps, as if he had told her to stay back to spare her the sight rather than for her safety's sake. It was kind of him, but she didn't say that.

"I didn't know the war had come this far," she murmured.

"You said it yourself, half the Crownlands swore to Stannis," Jaime replied. He sounded closer, directly behind perhaps. She wondered what he was doing. "The other half clearly disagrees."

"And now the people pay the price."

Myra grabbed the little doll, turning it over in her hands. Distantly, she heard Jaime's footsteps. He had left her again.

This was the true face of war that the songs never spoke of: the meaningless slaughter of innocents. Whether they were bandits or anointed knights of the Seven, it made no difference. War gave men the terrible right to exact whatever sort of carnage they had their minds on.

Robb would never do this. She knew her brother. He would never allow his men to do such things.

But what if he did?

No, no, her brother might change, but not in this way. He had been taught better. Their father had taught him better.

_Your father enjoyed it just as much as I do._

Myra closed her eyes, as if it could shut out Jaime's words as well. She would not listen to her fears; she could not.

"Don't linger on it."

She turned, eyes opening again. Jaime was standing near one of the wagons. He had grabbed a satchel and slung it over his shoulder. In his hands was a piece of fabric, a cloak maybe.

"What are you doing?" she asked, even though she knew the answer. He'd been looting.

"If we are going to survive, we need supplies," he explained slowly, his usual biting tone all but gone. He walked back toward her and took a knee by her side. "The further we go, the worse it is going to get. People are going to die, Myra, they will be screaming and bleeding and raping and doing all sorts of things your septa never prepared you for. And you need to turn away from it. If we stop, we die."

She looked deep into his green eyes, seeing the sincerity, but also the urgency in them.

"I should go away inside," she mumbled, remembering that day in the Red Keep, when Robert had been the worst of her problems.

A strange look passed over his features before Jaime nodded. "Exactly."

Myra looked to the doll in her hands again. Gently, she placed it in the girl's hand, and curled her small fingers around it. She had no words, no prayer out here. The old gods were blind in the South, and the new clearly did not care.

Nodding once, she let Jaime help her up. He handed her the cloak, leading her back into the forest.

* * *

**Tyrion**

Being the Hand of the King was going about as well as expected, meaning that when he wasn't attempting to bash his brains in on the desk, then he was drinking to numb the intelligent part of his mind that had to deal with the unnavigable labyrinth that was politics with his sister.

All in all, it wasn't too different from his normal life, really.

He had inquired on the whereabouts of the Stark girls with both Varys and Littlefinger, who swore up and down that they had no clue as to either girls' location. He was only tempted to believe them because neither was likely to pass up the opportunity of being in Cersei's good graces upon delivering one of the girls back into her charge.

So, Tyrion put aside the idea of diplomacy altogether and decided to focus on defense instead.

Renly Baratheon had rallied both the Stormlands and the Reach to his cause, bringing his army to a staggering one hundred thousand, if the reports were to be believed. Then again, Renly never could achieve anything without telling everyone within earshot. He always had been a terrible gossip. It was probably why the Tyrells liked him, besides the obvious.

Despite Renly's numbers, however, it was Stannis that left Tyrion worried. His army was not terribly large, but he had the ships, and he had the experience. If he played his cards right, King's Landing could be his in one fell swoop. Fortunately for them, he was too focused on his little brother at the moment.

Which left Robb Stark.

He may have been green, but Tyrion had heard the reports; he was out maneuvering the Lannister army at every turn. The thought of his father being beaten by anyone was downright unbelievable, but the fact that it had to be by the boy whose father his family happened to execute was utterly terrifying. Cersei could joke about the King in the North all she wanted, but he knew a threat when he saw one.

Tyrion sighed. No matter how he looked at it, the situation felt incredibly hopeless, and sometimes left him wondering if this wasn't his father's version of a death sentence.

The sound of crunching shook him from his thoughts.

Bronn sat across from him, legs propped on his desk and map, subsequently marking up the North with mud while he was at it, eating some nuts he had found…somewhere. No one had brought any food, that he was aware of. Was that his food?

"Do you mind?" Tyrion hissed, gaze switching between Bronn and his boots until the sellsword got the hint. "I'm trying to plan a defensive strategy."

Bronn sat up in his chair, pointing at the map. "You've been staring at this piece of paper half the morning. You're not doing anything."

"I'm so glad I kept you around, Bronn. You really boost the confidence of a man."

"You pay me to protect you from getting killed, not from the truth," Bronn countered, leaning back. "You just need to clear your head. A good killing can get you there."

Tyrion shook his head. "I can't just kill a man whenever I feel like it. It's uncivilized."

"This place just gets more boring the longer I'm here," Bronn continued. "Alright, what about a good fucking? Where's that girl of yours?"

"Not. Here."

"A good meal?"

"You're eating it."

Bronn looked to the nuts in his hand. "Oh, so I am. Well, it looks like the capital is good and fucked then isn't it?"

He should have just let Lysa Arryn toss him out the Moon Door.

Hopping from his seat, Tyrion gathered his soiled map and a few other items. Surely the library had a few hints at as to what he could do to better prepare the city for an attack. Sitting back smugly and assuming the walls were impenetrable was not exactly his preferred method.

Just as he reached the door, it promptly swung open, revealing his new squire, Podrick Payne. The boy was a bumbling mess, but he meant well, and did not appear to be someone out to kill him, and really that was all Tyrion could ask for these days.

"Apologies, milord," the boy mumbled with a quick bow of his head. "Lord Varys is here for you."

"Tell Varys I don't have time for-" Tyrion started, not really in the mood to deal with anymore realm gossip, especially from the Spider, seeing as how it was never good, but Varys swept into the room before he could finish the sentence. "-and you let him in."

Pod opened his mouth to no doubt stumble through a pathetic excuse, so Tyrion waved him off before he made a sound. The boy left, closing the door behind him.

Varys stood in the center of the room, dressed in silks and smelling faintly of lavender, taking everything in. "Funny, I thought it would be more…red."

"Not everyone has the decorating sense of my sister," Tyrion replied, crossing back to his desk. Bronn looked painfully smug as he continued eating. "So, tell me, Varys, what sort of ill news have you brought to me this time?"

"Ser Jaime has escaped Dragonstone."

Relief. That was all he felt. What little he had received when his father told him that his brother was still alive paled in comparison to what he felt now. He was no longer Stannis' hostage, to be used as a bargaining chip in the war against them. No, now the playing field was beginning to level off.

"Well…" Tyrion breathed, sitting in his chair. "That is remarkable news, for once, and also rather impressive given it's an island. Another rousing tale for my brother, no doubt. I'm sure Cersei is already planning a feast, something themed, like a lion hunting a stag, or would that be in poor taste?"

Bronn shrugged. "Line's a bit blurred at this point."

Varys did not comment on Tyrion's poor joke. In fact, he seemed to have become rooted to the spot, and was doing his best not to look in their direction.

_Oh gods, he hasn't told her._

There was only one reason why Varys would avoid telling his employer news that would undoubtedly overjoy her: it came with something equally horrible.

"Varys, why haven't you told my sister?" Tyrion asked, regretting every syllable he uttered.

The spymaster glanced over. "He did not escape alone."

"Don't say it," he started, holding his hand up, somehow already knowing the answer. "I will pay you good money not to say it."

"Myra Stark escaped with him."

Tyrion sank back in his seat, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I told you not to say it."

He could have said anyone else; he could have told them that the Mad King himself had come back from the dead wreathed in flame and was currently flying Jaime away from Dragonstone on the back of Balerion the Black Dread and it would have been better news.

"That girl your brother saved?" Bronn asked, sounding more curious than he should. "There a problem with that?"

"She's only the person whose head my sister would like to see mounted on a pike the most," Tyrion replied, hand sliding from his face. "I didn't even know she was on Dragonstone."

Varys shrugged. "Nobody did. Apparently her trip to White Harbor took a slight detour."

"Slight," he echoed, glancing at the unfurling map on his desk. "Ned Stark probably sent her to get Stannis. Clearly it didn't work out well for either of them."

"It managed to get her out of King's Landing prior to his execution. Some would call that fortunate."

"I wouldn't. She was stuck with Stannis all this time. I'd prefer the execution."

Bronn snorted. Varys looked unimpressed.

Tyrion sighed. "I suppose this means that I am to be the bearer of bad news to my sister, seeing as how my life is clearly unimportant, never mind that I'm the Hand of the King. We're easily replaced after all. Bronn…no, you'll enjoy this too much. I'll bring Pod instead."

* * *

He expected yelling or the throwing of certain priceless items across the room. Tyrion even expected to fear for his life once he told his sister of the less than agreeable side of his otherwise good news. What he did not expect was how utterly still his sister became. She sat on her chair, staring right past him, her hands grasping the rests with white knuckles. It was far more terrifying than he expected it to be.

As time passed, Tyrion began to realize Cersei might remain that way if he did not say something. Part of him considered just leaving, let her deal with her anger in whatever way she pleased, and deal with the aftermath later, but as Hand of the King, he had responsibilities, and one of the was to make sure the Queen Regent didn't murder any unsuspecting servants while throwing a tantrum.

It was bad enough that Joffrey did it.

He took a deep breath. "Cersei…"

His sister blinked, slowly, and then the life seemed to come back to her. She began to shuffle the papers on her desk once more, grabbing her quill and dipping it in the inkwell. On a new piece of parchment, she began to write something, a little furiously for his taste, but it was a better reaction than he could hope for.

"We'll send for some of our soldiers to intercept him," Cersei said calmly, not looking up from the paper. "The City Watch is far too incompetent for such a task."

"Ah, now that much we can agree-"

"And they'll have orders to kill the Stark girl."

Tyrion blinked. "Excuse me?"

Cersei looked at him like he was simple. "Myra Stark is a traitor to the crown. The penalty for treason is death, which our soldiers will serve once they find her."

He should have known that this conversation was going to go south. Nothing ever worked out in his favor, at least not when he wanted it to.

"She's just a girl, Cersei."

"A girl who conspired with one of our enemies and supports another."

"The other being Robb Stark who, if he doesn't already want to burn King's Landing to the ground, certainly will when he gets wind that we killed his twin sister," Tyrion countered, rubbing his temples as he felt a headache coming on. "She is the solution to our hostage problem. We lost her younger sisters. If our men bring her back alive, we could keep the Stark armies off our backs while we deal with all the other enemies we've made."

"Robb Stark is not a threat."

"Robb Stark is winning the war!" Tyrion shouted. Cersei's eyes narrowed to little more than slits. "As much as you or I want to believe that our Lannister might is infallible, the fact of the matter remains: the Starks have won every battle against our father. If you order this, you may just be damning everyone."

Tyrion knew his protestations would be fruitless, however. The poor Stark girl, born with the face of another, never stood a chance against his sister. Even if he could convince the soldiers to bring her back to King's Landing, chances were she would not last long. If Joffrey did not have his way with her, Cersei would eventually do something, lock her away to never be seen again, or disfigure her face in such a way that no one would ever wish to gaze upon her.

He knew his sister all to well. Perhaps death was a better option.

Cersei rolled up the parchment. "I am the Queen Regent. My orders stand."

She stood then and left the room, nearly slamming the door into poor Podrick's face.

Tyrion sighed, sinking deeper into the chair.

How had it come to this?

* * *

**Jaime**

He couldn't remember the last time he had spent a proper night outdoors. Sometime before he swore his oath to the Kingsguard, he supposed, when his father would take him on hunts. There was no retinue to attend to them, and barely a camp to return to at night. Sometimes Uncle Kevan would join them, but for the most part it was just the two of them. Jaime always thought it was less of a lesson of survival and more to finally have him cornered so he could teach him a thing or two about being his heir.

Jaime had always hated it, but in recent years, he looked back on the memories with more fondness than irritation. Of course, being alone with his father was far preferable to anything with Robert or Stannis. The bar never was very high for him.

It had been nearly two decades since then, yet Jaime still felt at ease in the woods, though he didn't think it had anything to do with what his father instilled in him. Probably just more of that youthful arrogance he always went on about, though he supposed there wasn't much youthfulness to it anymore.

He tossed a twig into the dimming fire, watching as the flames overtook it, crackling slightly.

Across from him, Myra Stark stirred.

It had taken her some time, but she eventually accepted the cloak he had given her, more out of a desperate need if anything. This night was colder than the others, and she was huddled under the thick fabric so far that only the ends of her hair stuck out.

He had hoped to spare her the gruesome sight on the road. She'd had a strong stomach so far when it came to death, but those were soldiers, not smallfolk, and he couldn't afford to have her fainting while they were on the run. When she hadn't, Jaime had been surprised. She continually proved herself stronger than he gave her credit for. He thought it might have been a Northern trait, but he remembered her sister, Sansa, and quickly changed his mind on the matter.

Myra shifted again.

She was dreaming; she had been the past couple nights. He didn't know what about. Occasionally she would murmur something unintelligible, but always began to toss and turn whenever she was about to wake up. She'd look around the area, confused for a moment, before remembering their situation and relaxing.

That was another strange thing about her. Any other lady of the court would have been utterly petrified at the idea of being out in the woods so long. Myra had yet to complain, except about him of course. They were getting testy with one another, and he was certain it would only get worse the further they went. He'd never expected her to be able to not only take his hits, but also throw them right back at him. It seemed whatever propriety she had possessed when they first met all those months ago had finally run out.

He was certain the idea would entertain him more if they weren't on the run for their lives.

Myra sat up suddenly, lowering the cloak from her face. She wrapped it about herself, keeping her knees close, as she began to look around the area. But the night was dark without the moon, and their fire had to stay as small as they could keep it.

She glanced up. "What do you suppose it means?"

Jaime followed her gaze. Through a gap in the trees, he saw a red comet as it streaked across the sky. It had been there for some time, from what he understood.

"It doesn't mean anything," Jaime replied, leaning back against the tree he sat in front of. "Signs, symbols, miracles, all superstitious nonsense."

"Do you have faith in anything?" she asked, head tilting.

He lifted his sword in reply. Myra shook her head and went back to stargazing.

Jaime watched her for a moment, taking in how she barely moved whenever the forest creaked. Occasionally she turned her head, but slowly, as if she was only curious, not paranoid. She was completely at ease.

Alright, he was curious.

"Tell me, how did you learn?" Jaime asked, earning a confused look from her. "To cook that is."

Myra nodded, inching closer to the fire so she could warm her hands over it. "Not just cooking. I can start a fire, skin some animals too."

Jaime blinked. "Yet you didn't mention it."

"You seemed quite insistent upon doing it yourself."

She met his gaze, but quickly broke into a grin, even a small giggle. The look on his face must have been something else.

"When my brother, Robb, was old enough, Father took him to the keeps of all our bannermen, so he could better understand the lands he would rule one day," Myra started, her gaze flicking between him and the fire. "I'd never been apart from him for more than a day or two, and was quite insistent that it remain that way."

Jaime understood that. He and Cersei had never longed to be parted, even before the beginning of their relationship. Two halves meant to be whole, as his sister always described them.

It suddenly occurred to him that Myra was also a twin. He'd forgotten, given she looked nothing like her brother. Being with him must have made thinking of her brother particularly awkward, but she made no mention of it. Perhaps she was bound to forget all of that. Their journey would certainly go smoother without her bringing it up.

Myra continued, completely unaware of his scrutiny. "Eventually, Father agreed. My mother always said that if I ever begged for anything, he never stood a chance."

She paused, the smile on her face sad. Jaime watched the emotions play across her face. He supposed she hadn't had the proper time to mourn. Being a prisoner was hardly the time to do so, and neither was being out on the run in the woods.

He still couldn't wrap his mind around the fact that Robert was actually gone. The man had always seemed one cup or bad piece of meat away from dying, but at some point Jaime had become convinced he'd outlive him only to piss him off. The king had been petty like that.

And Ned Stark? That was another matter entirely.

He only hoped Cersei knew what she was doing.

"So, he, Robb, and I travelled across the North. Bear Island was our final destination." Myra smiled again, her thoughts clearly far from the chaos of his own. "The Mormonts are a different sort of breed. Even for us, they're a little extreme. The instant Dacey Mormont learned that neither Robb nor I could swim, she grabbed us by our cloaks and tossed us into the Bay of Ice. And that was how we learned."

Jaime smirked half-heartedly. "Didn't do you much good at Dragonstone."

"I'd like to see you swim in a dress made of wool. It's much heavier than it looks, I assure you," Myra countered, giving him a look. "Anyway, the Mormonts insisted that if my brother was to learn anything, so was I. Whatever they taught him, they taught me. Father thought it was fair, but Mother was absolutely horrified when her daughter came home with a fox pelt she'd skinned herself. Of course, none of us told her I practically cried the entire time. She'd have throttled my father.

"I wouldn't hunt anything though. That was where I drew the line. I don't like…killing anything, but if it was already dead, it was best not to let it go to waste." She paused, glancing up at him. "And that is how a lady of a great house learned to cook little animals."

Jaime nodded, taking in how relaxed she looked. They'd never really spoken of anything that wasn't terrible, had they?

"Well, you're certainly better than my brother," Jaime found himself saying, leaning closer to the fire. "The first time our father took him hunting was the last time. He never wanted to go in the first place. Hunting involved riding and running and the outdoors, pretty much everything he hated, but Father insisted. No Lannister was going to go through life with his nose stuck in a book and his spear unused. It was a little spear, of course, Tyrion could hardly use a normal sized one. The servants wouldn't stop making size jokes for weeks."

He watched Myra smile softly, completely unoffended by the joke. She looked almost reminiscent if anything.

Jaime wondered why he was even telling her, but as the words continued to pour out, he realized that he just wanted to. It felt nice to just…talk. Aside from his family, which mostly consisted of Tyrion, he never had a regular conversation with anyone about anything. He was the Kingslayer, after all. No one just spoke to someone like that.

He used to tell himself that he didn't have the time or patience for people, but he'd never had the opportunity either.

"Tyrion didn't manage to kill anything," he continued. "So, Father had him skin the boar I'd gotten. It took him all of a minute to slice his thumb open."

Myra gasped slightly, her hand over her mouth.

"Uncle Kevan and I were in a panic. Father just took the knife and finished what Tyrion started. We bound his hand up as best we could and rode back home. That was when Father banned him from hunting with us ever again." Jaime paused, smiling softly. "When we were alone, Tyrion looked up at me and whispered 'all according to plan.'"

Myra laughed, though she quickly quieted down when she remembered where they were. Even Jaime chuckled slightly.

"Did he really cut his own thumb so he wouldn't have to hunt anymore?" she asked, eyes full of curiosity.

"No, I think my brother is full of shit," Jaime replied, listening to her giggle again. "But he's very good at pretending he's not."

"None of my brothers are, but they still try," Myra started. "When he was six, Bran took-"

The change was instant. Myra met his gaze briefly before looking back at the fire. He didn't miss how she backed up slightly and wrapped the cloak tighter around her.

Jaime took a breath. For a moment, even he had forgotten.

What fools they both were.

"You should go back to sleep," he murmured, not bothering to look at her again.

"No, I'm awake," she replied softly. "It's your turn."

Jaime did not protest.

He was vaguely aware of Myra turning her back to him as he fell asleep, where he dreamt of blonde heads and little boys who knew too much.


	23. The Storm

**Myra**

" _Are you scared?"_

_Round eyes watched her from the threshold, belonging to her young brother. Bran fidgeted, eying the window nervously as lightning flashed outside. One of Winterfell's rare storms, which always seemed to strike in the dead of night._

" _No," was his meek reply._

_The crash of thunder outside quickly changed his mind, sending the young Stark flying toward his sister's bed. She lifted the sheets as he ran, covering him as he all but dove under them and huddled by her side. Fortunately, Myra had been awake already. Storms no longer scared her as they once had, but she was still unable to sleep through them._

_Resting against her headboard, Myra put an arm around her brother. "Care to tell me why you've come to my room?"_

_Not that she minded, of course, but when she was his age, she preferred the company of her parents. Then again, she hadn't had any older siblings._

" _Theon says Father'll be disappointed if I go to him. He says I shouldn't be scared."_

_Myra sighed. The Greyjoy was going to get a piece of her mind come morning._

" _Father wouldn't be disappointed," Myra replied with a warm smile. "There's nothing wrong with being scared. A man cannot be brave unless he is scared. He'd tell you just as much."_

_Bran made a face. "I don't want another speech."_

" _You're a Stark, Bran. That's all you're ever going to get."_

_He stuck his tongue out. She did the same. Brother and sister smiled at one another a moment until another round of thunder sent Bran burying his face into her side._

" _It's alright," Myra cooed, holding him close. "The storm can't hurt you here."_

" _Old Nan says thunder is the sound of giants crushing the mountains together," his muffled voice replied._

" _Well, she told me it was dragons blinded by the rain crashing into one another. No one has seen a giant or a dragon in years. I think we'll be okay."_

_Another lightning strike revealed a taller figure standing in her doorway this time._

_Myra smirked. "Well, look at that, Bran, even your big brother is scared of the storm."_

_Robb entered the room slowly, hobbled by Rickon as he clung to his leg. "Petrified."_

" _Aw, Rickon, did Robb wake you? Honestly, Brother, you could have come in by yourself. I don't judge."_

_Her twin snorted as he neared the bed, all but prying his baby brother off so he could put him on the mattress before climbing on himself. They made quite the sight, the two oldest protecting the youngest._

_Rickon huddled up to Bran, who did not seem bothered in the least. If anything, her brother seemed happier with the company._

_Robb flopped down on one of her pillows, making himself comfortable. "Think we'll see the girls?"_

_Myra shook her head. "I doubt it. Arya can sleep through anything, and Sansa-"_

_On cue, thunder boomed, and the redhead dashed into the room._

" _-is here."_

_Robb chuckled. "We're running out of room."_

_Shifting over, Myra let Sansa rest on her left side, making sure that Robb was the one nearly falling off the bed. He gave her a look, but complied, lying on his side so he could fit._

" _I'm not scared," Sansa insisted as she clutched her sister's nightclothes. "I just needed to make sure everyone is okay, like a lady should."_

" _You're a proper model for us all, Sansa," Robb answered. Myra grabbed her brush from the bedside table and threw it at him. Rickon laughed._

_Not a minute later, Arya walked through the doorway, guided in by Jon, his hands on her shoulders. The girl looked sheepish, as if her fear tarnished her otherwise outgoing, adventurous nature. Jon simply shrugged._

_Myra smiled. "Well, come on then."_

_Arya dived onto the bed, claiming the space between Robb and Rickon, knocking the former to the floor. Being the dramatic brother that he was, Robb made a show of it, falling slowly and groaning like a man wounded in battle._

_And Arya, as was her way, was having none of it. "Oh, shut up, Robb."_

" _What have I done to deserve such cruelty?" he asked, poking his head up, curls sticking out this way and that._

" _You were born with sisters," Jon replied, sitting at the foot of the bed._

_Myra stuck her tongue out, kicking at Jon from under the covers._

_Undeterred, Robb went to lie back down in his old spot, right on top of Arya._

" _Get off me, you big oaf!" Arya shouted, though Robb's clothes muffled the words._

" _Did you hear something?" he asked, looking at his other siblings. Rickon was laughing again and even Bran smiled. "Could have sworn I heard this…annoying sound."_

" _Get off! Get off! Get off! Get off!" Arya flailed, landing a kick somewhere tender. Robb doubled over and rolled off the bed again. All the Stark siblings, Jon included, had a good laugh at their brother's pain._

" _If Theon comes in, he's sleeping on the floor," Myra said as Robb slowly stood and sat on the opposite end of the bed._

" _Better yet, we could lock him in one of your trunks," Jon suggested._

" _I like that idea," Arya said._

" _Me too," Bran agreed, sitting up a little._

_And one more person did enter that evening, though it was not who they expected. Lord Stark stepped into the room, holding a candle, with a serious look on his face, though it softened at the sight of all his children piled together._

" _Papa scared too!" Rickon shouted._

_Their father chuckled. "Quite the racket you've all managed to make. I forgot there was even a storm outside."_

" _We're sorry, Lord Stark," Jon apologized. He always called him father to his siblings, but never when the man was actually around. Perhaps he thought their mother was nearby. "It won't happen again."_

" _There's no need, Jon. No harm's been done. But the rest of you should get back to your own beds. I imagine your sister's had enough of your company. You can all bother her come morning."_

" _Oh Father, it's just one night," Myra pleaded. "I don't mind, really."_

_She watched him look at her, hoping he realized. After all, this time next year, she'd be a married woman and living in the Dreadfort. Until she had children of her own, she would never have something like this again, and even then, it would not be the same._

_Her father nodded. "Very well, but get to sleep."_

_Following a chorus of 'yes fathers,' the Stark children proceeded to get comfortable. Both Robb and Jon put their heads at the end of the bed with their big feet poking at their siblings. Sansa had quickly grabbed a blanket and covered them, mumbling about not dealing with the smell all night. Rickon held on to Arya, who for once did not complain, while Bran faced Myra as Sansa held onto her back._

" _You see, Bran?" Myra whispered when the others had fallen asleep. "You've nothing to worry about."_

* * *

Thunder crashed overhead, knocking Myra from her reverie. The warmth of Winterfell melted away, returning her to the cold and somber reality of the Crownlands. Her siblings turned into Jaime, and her happiness to a wretched mood that would not fade.

They had not spoken that morning, not when Jaime woke nor when the first drops of rain began to fall. There was no shelter to be found, so they simply began to walk. Jaime had handed her some dried meat he had taken from the ambushed caravan. His hand had brushed hers, and she thought on how it might have been the very one that pushed her little brother. It made her stomach twist, but she'd accepted the food anyway, eyes refusing to look up from the ground.

How easy it would be to think of Jaime as nothing more than some monster, an evil man her father had warned her against, but evil men did not save young women from their king, they did not laugh about fond memories, and she certainly would never trust one.

Jaime Lannister was no monster. He was simply a man.

And that only made it all the more painful.

The rain picked up. There was no wind in the trees, but the deluge had gone on for so long that the leaves had grown heavy and provided little in the way of cover. Their cloaks, once decent protection, had become soaked and only seemed to weigh them down, but Myra and Jaime continued forward in silent misery. They had no choice. If they did not find shelter, they'd die of exposure come the night.

They were descending into a valley, which either meant they were near a river or, if they were lucky, the Bay of Crabs. The way wasn't terribly steep, but the downpour had made the ground slick with mud. She and Jaime made their way slowly, holding on to low-lying branches and bushes to keep them from falling. However, in her distracted state, Myra took a wrong step and slipped.

She didn't fall far. In fact, Myra seemed to just sink into the mud beneath her and stayed stuck. Her hood fell off and she found herself staring at an opening at the top of the trees. Lightning streaked across the sky, followed closely by another round of thunder, and Myra could not help but feel a small boy tugging at her clothes.

It was easy to cry when the rain hid the evidence.

Jaime entered her vision, ready to help her up, and Myra, her misery drowning what inhibitions she had, could not help herself.

"Why her?"

She wondered if Jaime heard her properly, given the confused look on his face, so she continued.

"Why Cersei?"

His face darkened, and suddenly Jaime turned away, clearly no longer interested in helping her up. It was fine with her. She wasn't in the mood to touch him anyway.

Myra sat up, her sadness quickly igniting into something harsher. "You crippled my brother for seeing you with her! The least you could do is tell me why!"

Jaime turned around, equally furious. "I'm not here to discuss every decision I've made in my life with you. How you feel about it is hardly my concern."

She stood. "Given everything you do in  _your_ life is destroying  _mine_ , I don't care if it's your concern or not!"

Shaking his head, Jaime turned around, picking his way down the hill again. But Myra was not done with him yet. She was tired of being ignored, tired of being on the run, tired of everything going wrong, all because of the infuriating man walking away from her. The events of the day had not helped, and Myra found herself at a rare breaking point.

In a burst of rage, she gave a small shout and shoved him. Jaime staggered a moment, but regained his footing as he grabbed a small tree. He turned back to her, eyes wide in surprise.

"I hate you!" she shouted, hitting him again and again. "I hate your family! I didn't want any of this, but you took it all from me anyway!"

Jaime grabbed her wrist before she hit him again, his green eyes narrowed. "Hit me one more time and I'll-"

"You'll what, kill me? That's your answer to everything, isn't it?"

For a moment, his anger seemed to break, his eyes widened, mouth parting slightly, but at the same time, the tree he clung to gave way, and they both tumbled down the hillside. Myra felt rocks and sticks jam into every part of her body as she fell. She saw the sky, then the dirt, then the sky again, and had mostly given up on trying to stop herself.

Eventually, the ground evened out, and Jaime and Myra came to a halt, a jumble of limbs on the muddy earth.

She laid there for some time, watching the rain wash the mud off her outstretched hand, before sitting up slowly. Myra tested each of her limbs, checking for breaks, but she seemed to be fine, other than being bruised and battered and relatively ashamed of herself. She removed the hair from her face, feeling a fine layer of mud slip free onto her fingers. What a fine mess she had made.

Jaime was slower to move, but he, too, eventually sat up. He was next to her, shoulder brushing hers slightly, though he faced the opposite direction; he was staring at the trees, thinking.

"I can't tell you why," he said after some time, turning to her. His hair stuck out in wild directions, and half his face was covered in mud. The sight should have been hilarious, but she had never seen him more serious, not since that night on the balcony. "I didn't choose Cersei. She didn't choose me. Robert didn't choose Lyanna. Your father didn't choose your mother. We don't get to choose who we love."

There was a moment when she searched the green of his eyes when she did not see a brother in love with his sister, but a man who loved a woman. It was a sincerity she had not seen often, deep and close to the heart. They were words not said lightly.

"No, you don't," she admitted, her voice soft. "But you do get to choose how you act upon it. If loving someone means tearing half the world apart, perhaps you're better off without."

Jaime stood, wincing slightly. "You've never been in love."

As if that was an excuse for the death of thousands.

He offered his hand to her, seemingly over his anger as well, but Myra stood on her own, looking him in the eye.

"I don't think I want to be."

Myra began to walk away then, not bothering to check if Jaime followed or not. He'd dealt with her this long, so she figured her chances were good. She just didn't want to see him anymore.

The sky was beginning to darken when she emerged from the tree line. Though the rain still had yet to let up, making visibility near to none, there was still no mistaking the large body of water that she faced.

"The Bay of Crabs," Myra breathed, stepping onto the rocky beach. Though cold, hungry, and otherwise miserable, she let her heart soar ever so slightly at the sight. This was progress,  _real_  progress. There would be villages along this waterway, and that meant food and proper shelter. And, if she was lucky, lords loyal to her grandfather, Hoster Tully.

The same brief look of hope crossed Jaime's face when he walked out some time later. It diminished when he looked at her, but she could say the same for herself. They both took a moment to wipe themselves down at the water's edge before walking westward down the beach.

Out in the open, the relative protection the trees provided was gone. Not only were they down poured on entirely, but they were also buffeted by the winds that pushed in from the coast. Myra's brief happiness shriveled up and died somewhere cold as she uselessly wrapped the cloak around herself.

After some time, they stumbled to an outcropping, where the bay seemed to have worn out a cave some time ago. Jaime and Myra tentatively looked at one another before closing in on it. They stopped at the opening, just far enough inside that they were free of the storm, waiting for their eyes to adjust to the darkness.

"Do you think anything is in there?" Myra whispered.

Jaime grabbed a rock and threw it inside. She heard its impact, and the echoes that followed as it skidded across the hard ground. No other noise escaped.

"You shouldn't have done that," she continued, still unnerved by the convenient prospect of an empty cave.

"Well, there was nothing for me to kill," Jaime spat back, entering the cave with his sword unsheathed. Myra felt her eyes narrow, but followed him inside.

Deeper in the cave, her eyes began to adjust. Despite its proximity to the water, the space seemed rather dry. In the back of her mind, Old Nan was telling tales of smugglers and their prized possessions hidden away in secret corners of the world. Very much at the forefront was the possibility that those were more than just tales.

"Seems someone built a fire here once," Jaime mused, kicking at something on the ground. He kneeled down. "Lucky us."

She heard the sound of him striking steel on flint and soon a small flame emerged. It grew slowly, revealing parts of the cave they could not yet see.

Myra wasn't sure this was the kind of luck they wanted.

Nothing stood out immediately, but upon examining the interior, it became clear that someone had spent some time inside. There were no signs of animal life, a few branches had been gathered off to the side for kindling, and there was a distinct depression in the earth where someone used to sleep.

"We should not be here," she mumbled, eying the cave again with newfound wariness.

"Then go spend the evening in the storm if you like," Jaime replied. He met her gaze and thought better of it. "Look, if you want to stay dry and warm, we have no other choice."

She knew he had a point.

Resigning herself to defeat, Myra collapsed on the ground. She removed her cloak and placed it as close to the fire as she dared. The storm continued to rage on outside, but despite their safe surroundings, she still could not shake the feeling that they would have been better off at nature's mercy.

* * *

**Tyrion**

Things…weren't going well.

It was a rather mild way of saying that if a gate opened to any one of the seven hells at that very moment, he would not only choose to go, but may very well dive in headfirst and call it one of the best choices he'd ever made.

Wine. He needed more wine.

He stumbled out of his chair, which had become more of a bed than his actual mattress as of late, much to Shae's dismay, and crossed the room. Pod, knowing what he wanted, though it really didn't take much to guess, made to grab his decanter of wine to pour for him, but Tyrion waved him off. The last time he tried, he'd nearly spilt the entire thing, and if there was one thing he hated most in this world, it was the waste of a good wine.

Oh, and the whole war effort.

"So," Tyrion started, pouring his wine. "We have a famine, riots in the streets, burning buildings, and half the population of King's Landing wants Joffrey's head on a spike. Am I missing anything?"

"Don't forget the bloody flux," Bronn added, cleaning away at his nails with his dagger again from a bench.

"Oh, of course, how could I miss that?" Tyrion replied, returning to his desk. "Now, does anyone propose a solution to anything?"

Bronn looked up. "Why are you asking us?"

"The Small Council consists of either idiots or people whom I do not trust. The two of you may as well be better advisers."

"And which category does your sister fall under?"

Tyrion gave him a look, but it only served to encourage the sellsword.

"Pod," he started, looking to his squire, who still stood against the wall. The boy still jumped every time his name was mentioned. "Tell me, what would you do?"

The boy blinked. "More goldcloaks, milord?"

"We barely have the money to employ the ones we have now. Not to mention they're so horribly trained, I can't imagine how terrible the recruits would be," Tyrion replied, nodding. "Still, a good try. Bronn, how about you?"

"Make more money."

Tyrion rolled his eyes. "We discussed this already. It wouldn't work."

"And I still think you're full of shit."

The door burst open then. All three occupants looked over as a woman closed the door again and crossed the room as if she owned the place. She was dressed like a handmaiden, one of Cersei's if his memory served correctly, though he had never seen a handmaiden act as confident as this one. Her raven hair and tan complexion stood stark against the light green of her silk dress.

Bronn, Tyrion noted, was leaning forward in rapt attention.

At least someone in the city was predictable.

"Do you know who I am?" the woman asked, sitting in the seat across from his desk as if she was talking to a good friend rather than the Hand of the King.

Tyrion was at a loss for words. He looked over at Pod, who could only shrug.

"My name is Syrena," the woman continued. "Sand, if you must know."

"You're from Dorne."

"From Sunspear, yes."

Bronn sniffed. "And how does a bastard from Dorne get in the service of the queen?"

Syrena turned to the sellsword, her smile sharp. "By making herself useful, of course."

Tyrion watched her, a small thought forming in his head, involving a dead king and a man set to take the fall for his murder. He did not voice this thought aloud, of course, that would be a death sentence in and of itself, but Tyrion did not believe he was far from the mark. Dorne had no love of Robert after all, and her presence here and now was far too convenient.

"You're from Sunspear," Tyrion mused. "Are you related to anyone we know in particular?"

"My mother was no one, the daughter of some fishmonger, but my father…" The smile that grew on her face was a wicked thing, a far cry from the woman he had glanced in public. She grabbed a letter opener from his desk, toying with the sharp edges as if they were nothing. "It was not until I was older that I found out about the Red Viper. I demanded to see him. So go to him, my mother said, but when he discards you, do not return home. It is clear whom you have chosen. So, I went to him and he took me in. I trained, learned to read, scrubbed the smell of fish from my skin, and when I had grown, I returned to my village and burned down the fishmonger's hut with her inside."

The room was silent for some time. Tyrion gulped, eying the letter opener in her hands. He suddenly felt rather unsafe.

Then Bronn began to chuckle. He stood from the bench and crossed the room, walking behind the chair. Though he kept a leisurely pace to it, Tyrion could tell he was positioning himself. It seemed his money was being well spent.

"Here I thought she was going to be normal, then the Dornish in her raised its ugly little head."

Syrena glanced up, playing innocent. "You think my head is ugly?"

"I think it's very pretty," Bronn admitted, getting an eyeful from his position above her. "Absolutely crazy, but pretty."

The handmaiden hummed, replacing the letter opener on the desk. "You can stand down, Dog. I am not here to hurt your master."

That made the sellsword laugh, hard.

"Thank you, Bronn," Tyrion said dryly as he reached for the blade, bringing it safely back into his possession. "So, if you aren't here to murder me, then why are you here?"

"I have a proposition for you."

Tyrion chuckled. "Well, despite the incredibly true rumors you've heard about me, I'm afraid I'll have to decline. My  _dog_ , however, appears more than willing to take up the slack."

Bronn appeared offended. "I can do my own flirting, thank you very much."

Syrena rolled her eyes. "You are short on allies, are you not? Wolves from the North, Stags and Flowers from the South. What if you did not have to worry about whose side Dorne would fall on?"

Intrigued, Tyrion leaned forward. Perhaps this handmaiden did know a thing or two. "What are you suggesting?"

"My uncle, Prince Doran, has a son, Trystane. He would do well for the princess."

It  _was_  an interesting prospect. Not only would Myrcella be safe from the enclosing war, their house could finally extend the first tentative olive branch since Robert's Rebellion. They had only just avoided war with them, and only because the steady hand of Doran held the people, and more importantly his brother, at bay. Without him, things could get out of control quickly.

This may just be their way of finally settling things.

However…

"Why is it that  _you_  are bringing this to me?" Tyrion asked, sitting back again. "If Prince Doran were interested in such an alliance, surely he'd have sent a raven. I hear that Dorne treats its bastards better than most, but I doubt negotiating marriage contracts is something House Martell would entrust to one, especially when they are apparently secretly working against my sister. I assume she doesn't know whose bastard you are."

Syrena shrugged. "She knows what I tell her, same as you."

"And what does Prince Doran know?"

"He knows that if you send word, it would be too good a possibility to pass up."

Tyrion narrowed his eyes. "What are you hiding?"

She smiled. "We're all hiding something here, Lord Tyrion."

He looked to Bronn, then to Podrick, before locking eyes with the handmaiden again. There was something about her, some fact that he was missing. Yes, she used to work for someone, a girl…

" _Who_  are you hiding?"

There it was, a flicker of something in her eyes. Uncertainty? Anger? Whatever it was, it gave away everything, and she knew it. This alliance was an opportunity for more than one person it seemed.

"No one you need concern yourself with."

They stared each other down for some time. Tyrion thought to decline her offer, have her followed if he could. Varys might know someone. But she would suspect, and if he were honest, he'd rather not spend the rest of his time in King's Landing in fear of a handmaiden with a letter opener. There were already too many to watch out for.

Besides, this may provide…future opportunities. If anyone knew what his sister was truly doing, she might.

"Alright, I accept. I'll write Prince Doran personally and ask for this alliance. Provided he agrees, I'll see to it that Princess Myrcella and her…entourage are accommodated."

If the handmaiden truly was hiding Sansa Stark, as he suspected, the girl would not be safe in the Red Keep, His sister was temperamental and Joffrey was…well, there wasn't much of a word to describe him. But in Dorne, she would find some reprieve, and at least he'd know where she was. Slightly out of arm's reach, but not untouchable was better than not having a clue at all.

This web he was spinning was growing far too complicated, even for himself.

The woman's wicked smile returned.

Syrena stood slowly, graciously bowing her head. "Thank you, Lord Tyrion."

She turned around, moving to leave. Running her hand across the back of Bronn's shoulders, she seemed greatly amused by the way he turned to look at her. "Dog."

Tyrion watched as she opened the door. "Tell me, what do you get out of this? Moving your precious cargo?"

For the first time, the woman seemed hesitant. She blinked slowly, a frown pulling at her lips. Still, she looked no less graceful.

"Some vows are not meant to be broken."

And then she left.

All three men stared at the doorway for some time, then Bronn whistled low.

"You ever been with a Dornish girl?"

"Can't say I have," Tyrion replied, grabbing his quill. Clearly he had some work to do.

"They're just as likely to kill as to fuck you," Bronn said, sounding oddly impressed by it.

Podrick, who had been quiet through the whole affair, finally spoke. "Is that why she took your dagger?"

Bronn froze, and Tyrion would have given all his gold to see the look on the man's face as the wheels in his mind turned. He watched the sellsword look down and pat himself, finding nothing on his belt.

"Fucking Dornish bastard," Bronn grumbled, storming to the threshold.

"Don't stay out too late now," Tyrion called, receiving a slammed door in reply. "Come and take a seat, Pod. Tell me everything you know about Dorne. I'm a little rusty with their customs, and would rather not start another war with a letter."

Gods knew he was about to start one with Cersei by doing this.

* * *

**Jaime**

Myra had not wanted to sleep, he could tell. She had moved against a wall of the cave, where the rock formed a corner of sorts, and eyed everything with a deep mistrust. But eventually the hardship of the day caught up to her, and she fell asleep with her head leaning uncomfortably on her shoulder.

It should have occurred to him that the young woman who had been so at ease in the middle of the forest suddenly becoming frightened in their shelter was a bad sign, but he was too angry and tired to care.

The day had been a long one.

It would be so easy to leave her, he realized, as he watched her from across the fire. He could walk away now and she would be none the wiser, until she woke to embers and an empty cave. It would certainly save him a good deal of trouble. That stunt she pulled on the hillside could have ended worse than it did. Running from Stannis would prove quite difficult with a broken leg, not to mention fighting. Never mind the small voice in the back of his head that insisted she wasn't wrong to act as she had.

Why did it sound like Tyrion?

However, the thought of abandoning Myra Stark to whatever fate had in store for her, death most likely, did not sit well with Jaime, and he quickly pushed it aside. They had come this far together, and she could be useful down the road.

That wasn't the only reason, chimed the voice, and Jaime frowned. His damned sense of honor, tattered and soiled as it was, still had some sort of sway on him. Whether it was from leering eyes or cutthroats, he felt obligated to protect Myra Stark, and it wasn't even a conscious decision. It just happened, and it had been for some time.

Yes, he could see now why Tyrion had been incredibly entertained by the notion. And why Cersei thought him so pathetic. The man who had killed a king finding his hand stayed by some sad, gray eyes. Had Robert not acted the same way?

This certainly was a new low for him.

What surprised him more was that Myra still managed to trust him enough to sleep in his company, especially after her little outburst. She claimed to hate him, but he was not entirely certain that was true. Maybe at the time, but when she looked at him after he finally answered her question, there was no hatred in her eyes. Myra had been as much an open book at that moment as he had felt. There was no malice, no disgust, only an understanding, as if she could actually accept what he felt for Cersei.

It was the fallout of their love that did not sit well with her.

He'd considered fleeing to Essos once when he was young, in order to leave behind all the problems and taboos that plagued them. A man of his skill would do well as a sellsword, and he'd undoubtedly have his own company in no time. When he mentioned it to Cersei, she had quickly dashed those thoughts. There was no safety in it, and she would not come to depend upon him. In Westeros, she had power and identity, a political standing few could compete against, and she would not abandon that.

There had been nights when Jaime wondered how life would have been across the Narrow Sea, with only Cersei. He wondered what would have become of the Seven Kingdoms.

They certainly could not do worse than this.

Jaime sighed. He hated how his mind wandered to places he'd rather not go. This was the life he was given. There was no sense in trying to imagine the what ifs of it.

He grabbed another branch from the pile that had mysteriously been left behind and added it to the fire, watching as the dried leaves withered and the bark curled and crunched under the strain of the heat. Myra stirred briefly and mumbled something, but otherwise did not wake. Perhaps he'd let her sleep the entire night. He didn't feel like sleeping much himself.

But his body had different plans, and soon his eyes grew heavy.

He dreamed of the tower, the broken, crumbling thing he had scouted the night before while everyone was sleeping or drunk. Tyrion had barely looked up from his book when he left. Sometimes he wondered if his brother did not prefer their company to him.

Tyrion certainly wouldn't be the first, or the last, he figured.

Cersei was there, eyes wide in a sort of fear he had never seen in her before. She held her shawl close to her body, mouth forming those familiar words.

"He saw us."

Jaime looked to his hand, holding the boy who would damn them all: Bran Stark. The child was already halfway out the window, clinging desperately to his arm. He was equally terrified, and for good reason: his fate was already sealed.

"Wait!"

Gray eyes pleaded with him as Myra Stark suddenly appeared beside Cersei.

"Please."

Jaime hesitated.

"He  _saw_ us," Cersei hissed.

In the next moment, the boy was falling, as he always had, as he always would.

Myra screamed.

Jaime bolted awake, scrambling to get his bearings. Her gray eyes were staring at him even now from across the fire, wide in terror.

And at her neck was a dagger.

The instant Jaime reached for his knife, a boot kicked him in the head. He fell over, hard, his mind swimming. Another swift kick to his stomach flipped him over onto his back. He coughed and wheezed, clawing at the offended region as if he could cut the pain out with his fingers.

"Jaime!" he heard Myra shout. His eyes opened despite the pain. Three men were standing above him, dressed in ragged clothes just like them. They were brutish looking thugs without an ounce of intelligence between them, he wagered. Men like them thrived on war, when sacking villages and killing those within seemed to be on everyone's minds. He'd seen their kind many times, hunted them down as well, and now he was at their mercy.

The fourth man dragged Myra to her feet, the dagger never leaving her neck even as her hands reached for his wrist. He was an ugly bastard, faced marred by pox marks and hair greasy black. His rotten smile was large as his free hand stroked Myra's cheek.

"Got ourselves a pretty one 'ere, lads."

The girl closed her eyes and whimpered.

At the sound, Jaime sat up abruptly, but was met with steel. Three swords pointed down at him, nearly blunt, crude things, but they would certainly get the job done. He glared up at the equally ugly faces staring down at him.

_Better to kill me now,_ he thought.  _I won't allow you a second chance._

The men, however, seemed to be intent on letting him live for whatever twisted reason. One took his dagger away, kicking his sword to the side in the process.

"Move, and we'll gut ya like a pig," the man mumbled, as if he was somehow intimidating. His breath was deadlier. "Watch 'im."

Two of them moved off to the side, searching through what little gear they had, while the one remained, a cruel smile on his face as he held Jaime at bay.

"What's a girl like ya doin' out here, eh?" the man holding Myra mumbled, speaking into her hair as he smelled it. "Waitin' for someone like ol' Thom to come along and show you 'ow it's done? Bet my pecker's bigger 'an his."

Myra began to cry, her eyes still shut. "Please…"

"Oy, look, see? Got you beggin' for me already."

"Fuck's sake, Thom, you ain't got to woo 'er," shouted one of the men by the gear. "Some of us want to 'ave a go."

'Thom' huffed but complied, dragging Myra back toward the entrance of the cave, where the firelight ended and bathed the area in darkness. Despite the blade at her neck, Myra began to flail, kicking her legs up and screaming, but the man was far too strong for her.

"Jaime!" she cried, voice shrill and filled with terror.

He stood, and the sword came to rest upon his neck. This man was bigger than him, yet still utterly unintimidating.

"Move again and I'll cut you open."

"You're going to regret that," Jaime hissed.

Myra disappeared out of the light, still fighting as hard as she could. Her wide eyes looked to him one last time before they faded into the darkness.

"No! Let me go!" he heard her scream.

"Quiet, bitch!"

Then he heard the sound of tearing fabric.

His reaction was instantaneous.

Jaime grabbed the sword held to his throat with his left hand, shoving it to the side. Never mind that it cut into his palm and fingers, he couldn't feel the pain, not through the rage that consumed him. It was the right hand that he needed intact; anything else was expendable.

He wrenched the sword out of his grip, the man too stunned by Jaime's actions to react properly, and punched him in the face with his right. The man fell hard, but he had no time to worry about him.

Quickly, he tossed the sword into his right hand and swung at the closer of the other two attackers. It got caught halfway through the man's neck. The man barely gurgled before falling to the ground in a bloody heap.

The other man launched forward as Jaime tried to pry the sword loose, and from behind the first one grabbed him, lifting Jaime into the air. His grip was tight on his ribs, choking the air out of him. He dropped the sword, flailing a moment before kicking out at the man running toward him. Jaime knocked him back against the wall, stunning him briefly, and proceeded to elbow the ribcage of the one holding him.

It had no effect, of course, so Jaime reached backward, searching for the man's face, scraping across the skin. A sticky squish and a shout told him he'd gotten the man's eyes, and soon the grip loosened.

Jaime dropped to the ground as the man stumbled backward, hands on his eyes. He grabbed his sword quickly, bringing it up just in time to catch the blade of the man he had kicked as it arced downward, ready to take out his head.

The man's eyes widened at his strength, realizing that his band of outlaws clearly chose the wrong man to confront. Jaime quickly knocked the sword from his grasp, and drove his into the man's gut.

Half-blind, his last attacker stumbled forward, blood gushing down his face.

"Why I oughtta-"

Jaime sliced his sword straight across his stomach and left the man to die with his intestines spilling out.

"Myra!" he shouted, running toward the front of the cave, sword at the ready, bracing himself for the worst.

He heard her before he saw her. She was grunting, angrily, and beneath it he heard the all too familiar sound of steel on flesh and bone.

When his eyes adjusted, Jaime was almost too stunned to move.

Myra was straddling Thom, who at some point must have heard the ruckus and tried to intervene. It must have been enough of a distraction for her to fight and gain the advantage because he was on his back now, eyes staring lifelessly as Myra stabbed him again and again in the chest. She was crying still, hands and face bloody, tunic torn so far that her chest was barely hidden from him.

She didn't even notice him; she just kept stabbing the knife into the man, each hit as hate filled as the last.

"Myra," Jaime called out, but his voice was too soft, lost, and she did not hear him.

He ran to her side, grabbing her wrist as she was mid-swing. She screamed, fighting to get out of his grasp, fighting to stab him with the knife if she had to.

"Myra, it's me!" he shouted, getting her attention. She slowed, eyes impossibly wider than before. Her body was trembling and her breath was shaky. "I'm not going to hurt you."

"J-Jaime," she breathed. Then Myra took in her surroundings, saw the blade in her hand, and the bloody mess she had created. It was as if she had not realized what she had been doing. He knew the feeling all too well.

Her breath hitched, and she stumbled to the side, dropping the knife. Jaime let her go, and she proceeded to retch.

He knew that feeling too.

Jaime walked over the body and grabbed her hair out of the way, which at some point had been pulled out of the braid she had woven. He was careful not to touch her with his left hand. Better not to leave her with another bloody mess.

"C'mon," he whispered when her stomach had settled. Jaime put his arm around her shoulder and helped her up, slowly leading her toward the cave entrance. She lamely pulled at the fabric of her tunic, attempting to cover herself up.

He settled her down just outside. The rains had dispersed, leaving a clear sky, where a bright moon rested, and the red comet continued on its path. In the east, the first pale colors of dawn were beginning to form on the horizon. The air was cool and crisp, but far preferable to where they just were.

"Let me see," he spoke softly, kneeling beside her. He moved his hands slowly, so that she would see them approaching, and gently touched her. There was a bruise forming near her left eye that he lightly prodded. She winced slightly, but otherwise made no complaint. Her lip was split, and when he lifted her chin, he could see a trail of blood where the blade had nicked her neck. "Is there…anything else?"

Myra blinked slowly and then shook her head.

Jaime cupped her face in his hand. "I'm going back inside for a moment. Will you be alright?"

He watched her eyes move back and forth, searching his. Fear flickered in them, but faded quickly as she nodded.

Inside the cave, the one man still moaned. Jaime looked at him briefly, watching his hands uselessly struggle to return his insides to his stomach, before moving on. He gathered what gear they had, picked up Myra's cloak, and searched the other bodies for things of use, money, rags, bits of food, things these men wouldn't need anymore.

He ripped the sleeve of one of them and wrapped it around his hand; he was no maester, but it would do for the time being.

Jaime returned his sword and dagger to their proper places, and tossed the satchel over his shoulder.

"Please…" came a pathetic sob.

He looked to the man, who reached his hand out, begging to end his life. Jaime wished he could. He wished the others were alive so he could shove his sword through them again and again and again; he wished that they would live for hours and bleed out slowly, that terror was the last thing they knew before leaving this world.

But only one remained, and he did not deserve the mercy of a swift death.

So Jaime left.

Myra had not moved. She'd gathered her tunic as best she could and sat hugging herself against the wind, though Jaime knew it was not the cold that continued to make her tremble.

She was right. Everything he did _was_  destroying her life.

"Here," he said, placing the cloak over her shoulders. Myra jumped at the movement, but quickly snatched the fabric up, burying her hands inside as they held it against her body, covering everything up. "We need to go."

She nodded, standing; she allowed him to put his arm around her again and gently lead her away. He knew she was taking his advice, going away inside. Talking about it now wasn't going to get him anywhere. She would speak in her own time, although he couldn't be certain that he was the one she wished to talk to about it.

But he was all she had.

And she was all he had too.

For better or worse.


	24. The Sacking

**Myra**

_He'd dragged her into the darkness as she screamed and kicked, but his body was like a rock that would no budge no matter how she protested. She could feel the cold steel of his blade against her neck, and the pain as it began to cut into her skin, but she did not care. Slicing her throat open was preferable to what he wanted to do._

_Her eyes found Jaime's one last time. How frightened and angry they looked as he watched her disappear. After all, what could he do? There was a sword to his neck, and three men to watch him. He could not help her._

_The man let her go briefly. Myra tried to run, but one hand on her shoulder was all he needed to not only drag her back, but also shove her onto the ground._

_Then he was on top of her._

_Whatever she had felt before was nothing compared to the panic that rose within her now. She felt his hand on her thigh, reaching upward to find the hem of her leggings._

" _No! Let me go!" she cried, kicking and thrashing._

_That was when he punched her._

" _Quiet, bitch!"_

_The world was a blur. She couldn't hear anything, save for the sound of her rapid breathing. Something was tugging at her, and then she felt the fabric of her tunic give way, the cold, evening air rushing to her exposed skin. Her eyes turned to the man, his face twisted and ugly, breath foul, smile grotesque as he moved one hand to his breeches and the other back to her legs._

_And suddenly, the fear was gone, or rather, replaced. There was an anger in her now, an indignation rising up inside, ready to explode. She was Myra Stark, eldest child of Lord Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North; she was sister to Robb Stark, the King in the North. She was a woman grown, respectful and decent, who bore no ill will toward her fellow man, and she did not deserve this. No one deserved this._

_How dare he._

_She began to fight him again, oblivious to the second hit across her mouth; she kicked and she scratched and she screamed. There would be no quiet obedience from her, not this time._

_He startled suddenly, distracted by something deeper in the cave. Myra could just barely make out the figures scuffling by the fire. Jaime was fighting back._

_Myra felt the pressure lift from her body as the man moved to help the others. She watched him walk away, as if in slow motion, but she was not done with him yet. With a shout, she lashed out at him, grabbing his leg and tripped him up. A large man fell hard, and this one was slow to get up. His dagger, she noted, had tumbled from his grasp._

_She raced forward, climbing over him to grab it first._

_He reached for her. "What are you-"_

_Myra slashed his face open._

_The man screamed and clutched his head. As he did so, Myra climbed on top of him. He was at her mercy now. How did it feel, she wondered. She hoped he was terrified, that he prayed to whatever gods he believed in and despaired as they said 'no.'_

_How_ dare _he._

_Grasping his knife with both hands, Myra swung down with all her strength, stabbing him in the chest._

_It might have killed him then. There was a sickening crunch and a popping sensation as her blade dug past his ribs and well into the organs beneath. He wheezed a moment before coughing and sputtering, blood spilling past his lips. He could not survive, but she had to know._

_Somehow, she managed to remove the knife, feeling its blade scrape against bone, and with another cry, she brought it down again._

_And again._

_And again._

_How dare he._

_How dare he._

_How-_

* * *

Myra stumbled slightly, her foot catching on a fallen branch. She recovered quickly, having been more disrupted than in actual danger of falling, but nonetheless, the movement attracted the attention of her traveling companion.

He looked over his shoulder, silent, but his eyes spoke volumes. When her mind was not wandering, she had caught him glancing back at her several times. It was not subtle in nature, either. He was very clearly looking at her, and wanted her to know that.

Jaime Lannister was worried.

She had never seen him this way. There had been a moderate amount of concern here and there, mostly when potential threats were involved, but even on that night with Robert, he had been more defensive than openly troubled. Now, his arrogant nature had been set aside entirely in favor of a more approachable disposition, which made him appear terribly awkward either because he did not know how to interact properly with her or because he did not know how to function without his caustic personality for longer than a few hours.

Someone was laughing in the far reaches of her mind. She wondered if it was her.

His gaze returned forward, toward the ever-stretching beach that had been their path since the early morning. Myra knew that she should give him some sort of sign, let him know that she was here, buried under this quiet melancholy. After all, she hated for others to worry over her, even a Lannister, but the words were heavy and her tongue thick, so she resigned herself to silence.

Myra pulled her cloak tighter, though the fabric seemed to be at its limits already. She felt the seams stretch, but her fingers still clawed for more, numb from their white-knuckled grip for so long.

Shame. That was the word, was it not? It was a terrible one. Shame was for Robb when their mother caught him sneaking home after visiting the whorehouse; shame was for Robert Baratheon for attacking her in his drunken stupor. A highborn lady who had done nothing to provoke so vile an act should not feel shame. It was for the wrongdoers, not the wronged.

And yet, the sensation was burying her alive.

But, she had done wrong, had she not?

She'd killed a man, taken his life with her own two hands, crazed, violently, brutally. Even Jaime could not claim to be the butcher that she was. His kills were clean, efficient, and quick, more or less. But had he not intervened, Myra could not say when she would have stopped. Her brief recollection of the damage she inflicted before she had stumbled away from the corpse was unrecognizable carnage. What was once a man had become something else entirely, and yet she would have continued.

However, she did not regret it.

Deep inside, a pillar stood firm against the whirlwind of thoughts and emotions. It was the solid belief that she was justified in taking that man's life. Doing what she believed was wrong was sometimes the only way, and she was starting to see that now.

There was something else to this, she realized, something more than the shame of exposure and humiliation, more than the horrendous act she had used to free herself, that kept her so low.

Myra stopped. She looked around, taking in the sun and the warmth of the day, the breeze that fluttered gently through her hair. Suddenly, it was so incredibly difficult to breathe.

"He'd hate me…" she blurted, voice cracking.

Jaime stopped and turned back to her, eyes wide, as if the idea of her speaking was surprising.

She met his eyes for what felt like the first time in ages, though it could not have been more than a few hours.

"My father…what I did…he…"

He wouldn't understand. Why was she telling him? Had he not said how she felt was not his concern? She was just a stupid girl who had no clue about the world, a useless, foolish, waste of his time…

She turned away from him, looking back to the water, feeling utterly alone.

Jaime came to stand next to her, the crunching of rocks beneath his boots giving him away. She could feel his eyes on her, but he did not speak, not yet. Did he have nothing to say? That seemed rather unlike him.

"He wouldn't hate you," he mumbled after some time. "Ned Stark wouldn't fault his daughter for defending herself."

"You don't  _know_ that," Myra replied, her lip quivering as she turned to face him. "I wasn't defending myself, not anymore. I butchered that man…"

She watched him look at her, not impatient, as he has been so many times. There was only an understanding reflected in his eyes as she argued with him.

Then he almost smiled. "You know, all Lannister children are fine examples of fatherly disappointment. You should trust me when I say you aren't capable."

"But I-"

"No," Jaime said firmly. "In the thick of it, we do things that we can't control. There is no logic, no time to think it through, just raw instinct and emotion. What you did was what anyone would have, and what he deserved. Don't think on it any more than that."

Myra opened her mouth to argue further, but decided against it. She looked to the ground, nodding lamely, before her eyes caught sight of something dripping. Jaime's left hand was wrapped, badly, in some filthy rags, which his blood had begun to seep through.

"You're hur-"

She'd reached her hand out from her cloak to grab the wounded limb, only to freeze upon seeing her own blood-soaked hand. The liquid had dried over time, the red of it dark and brittle to the touch. She felt the stuff crackle against her skin as she moved her fingers against one another.

Suddenly, it was wet again, slick and warm.

How dare he.

How dare he.

How-

Jaime grabbed her hand with his good one. Startled, she attempted to pull away, but he held firm until she recognized him again.

He sighed. "Come with me."

As they walked toward the water's edge, Jaime did not let go of her hand. His grip was tight, as if convinced that she would bolt the instant he let go. He needn't have worried, though. She would have followed him anywhere at this point, lamely, like a stray.

When the water was lapping at their boots, he let her go, giving her a quick onceover before removing the dagger from his belt.

Myra blinked.

He reached for her cloak, and she stepped back.

Taking a breath, Jaime put both hands up slowly, a calming gesture. She'd used it on nervous horses before.

"I need you to trust me."

She did. But she couldn't say it; so Myra just nodded again and let Jaime go back to work.

"You're going to look ridiculous, but at least you won't have to hold onto the cloak anymore," Jaime said, his voice distracting her from his work, or at least trying to. As the blade cut into her cloak, the tearing fabric returned her painfully to the night before when her tunic had been ripped open. Myra did her best to focus on his words. "There, now put your belt around it."

Giving her the courtesy of turning away, Jaime waited as Myra undid the belt around her waist and cinched it around the two pieces of her cloak at the front, keeping herself covered up without having to hold on to the fabric. With two slits cut on either side, she had a way for her arms to freely move about. It  _was_  ridiculous, but it was better than what she had before.

Myra briefly looked at her red hands again before taking to her knees and shoving them into the water. It was freezing to the touch, but that hardly mattered to her. She rubbed her hands back and forth, scraped at them with her nails, did anything she could to get the dreadful color off her skin.

How dare he.

How dare he.

She felt a hand on her shoulder. "You're done."

Looking up, Myra met Jaime's eyes briefly, and nodded. She leaned back, sitting properly on the pebbles that filled the beach, drying her hands on her cloak. Then her gaze turned to his own wounded hand. "May…may I see it?"

Jaime looked at his hand. "It's fine."

The side of her mouth quirked ever so slightly. "You're a rubbish liar, Jaime Lannister."

He sighed, hesitating. She watched him glance around the area before sitting on the beach next to her. Myra gently took the offered hand into both of hers, turning the appendage over carefully and examining it thoroughly before she began to unwrap the fabric that had been hastily put in place.

This blood was different, she told herself. It was Jaime's, not anyone else's, and not at her own hands. She could do this because he needed her help; she could do anything if it was for someone else.

"You'd have been better off not wrapping it at all," Myra quietly criticized, tossing the fabric away. "Gods know what sort of foul things that had been on."

"You cook, you start fires, and now you're a maester," Jaime teased. Her lips twitched again, but a smile felt so far off.

"Every lady knows a thing or two, but I grew up with three boys around the same age, so I know a bit more than that," she replied, grateful for a distraction as her fingers inspected the cuts on Jaime's hand, and the bright red that still blossomed from them. "Maester Luwin always said I was far too curious, but he still taught me. I think he was just happy that one of us listened to him. Wash these out."

Jaime did as he was told without complaint. Myra watched as he scrubbed out the dirt and other filth that had gotten stuck to his wounds. It was a curious injury.

"How did you get these?" she asked, thinking on how he might have gotten the cuts. "It almost seems like you…grabbed a sword by the blade."

He didn't reply.

"Is that what you did?"

"I had to get to you somehow," Jaime mumbled, taking his hand back out of the water and offering it to her again. "The man's sword wasn't going to move on its own, after all."

Myra blinked, finding herself unable to move in any other way. Jaime Lannister owed her nothing. After she let him out of his cell, he could have left her. Then he could have let her drown. He could have refused to help her off the island or left her on the beach when they hit the mainland; he could have let those men have their way with her, or even before this wretched business had begun, he could have left her alone with Robert all that time ago. Yet at every turn, he continued to prove himself to be one of the few people she could rely upon in this world.

Complicated no longer seemed an appropriate word for her relationship with the man.

"Still bleeding," Jaime spoke, though he seemed to look more amused than anything.

Shaking her head, Myra tossed the thoughts aside. "Give me your dagger."

"Are you sure?"

She took a breath and nodded. "Yes."

Jaime removed the knife again, grabbing the blade in order to offer it to her handle first. She took it slowly, ignoring whatever thoughts swelled inside as she handled a weapon again. Instead, she clung to that one pillar; the one that told her she was right, strengthened when Jaime said it was all she needed to know. She clung to it desperately, and began to cut at her cloak again.

Myra tried to use a relatively clean portion of the fabric, but after everything they had been through, there wasn't much left that could be considered under the proper definition of the word. Still, it was leagues better than what Jaime had used.

Placing the dagger beside her, Myra took the strip of cloth she had cut and began to wrap Jaime's hand.

"I can't do anything about your fingers, but the cuts aren't as deep. If you ball your hand into a fist, the bleeding should stop eventually," Myra said matter-of-factly, her focus solely on her work. She tied the ends of the fabric on top of the wound in order to keep pressure on it, just as she had been taught so long ago. "As for your palm, we'll have to keep an eye on it. An infection out here isn't going to go well."

Myra began to turn his hand over again, inspecting her work, mentally noting how small her hands were compared to his.

"I suppose I ought to thank you," Jaime mused, causing Myra to look up. She met his green eyes, teasing and genuine all at once, and was struck by them briefly. They were the first things she saw when he was trying to stop her from stabbing Thom further, the first things she focused on as reality and her sense of self returned to her, and at that moment, they had been the most beautiful things she had ever laid her eyes on.

Clearing her throat, Myra nodded and released his hand. She grabbed his dagger beside her and offered it to him.

Jaime stood instead. Myra followed suit, offering it once more.

"You need to keep it," he insisted.

"I can't."

"You have to."

Myra felt her breath quicken, and did her best to control it. "I don't want to kill someone else."

"Good, you shouldn't."

_But you do_ , was her unspoken reply. Jaime seemed to sense it nonetheless. Myra didn't think he looked ashamed of the thought, but there seemed to be something darker about him anyway.

"Hold it out," Jaime said. Myra complied, letting him adjust her grip to his liking. "Your grip shouldn't be too firm or too loose. Think of it as a natural extension of your arm. It should feel comfortable."

He grabbed her wrist lightly. "Going for the chest will kill a man, but you won't get many openings for it. Not to mention, the men we met didn't have armor. If you're going to defend yourself, you need to know where to hit them."

Myra swallowed hard. She hated this; she wanted to back away and have nothing to do with it, but there was a solemn look in Jaime's eyes. It was something she needed to know in order to survive, and he wasn't going to move until she learned it. She would not be a victim again.

So she nodded, and he continued.

"Armor can seem impossible to fight against, but there are always vulnerable areas to exploit," Jaime said, moving her arm down, low enough that she got the point, but not so much to make it uncomfortable. "The groin and thighs have plenty of veins in them. Hit the right one and a man can bleed out in minutes."

He moved her hand up near his shoulder. "Any joint works, but the underarm is best. Stab straight inward and you'll render a man unable to breathe."

Then he took her hand to right beside his neck. "Then there is the obvious one. Stab or slice, you're bound to get the job done, but this is the most guarded. Don't go for it unless you have no other choice. It leaves you the most vulnerable."

Jaime let her hand go then, though Myra did not move. The blade in her hand rested ever so slightly on his skin. She wondered if he had not done that on purpose.

She trusted him. Perhaps now he trusted her.

"You're certain you don't want to kill anyone else?" Jaime whispered when she hesitated too long. His eyes were watching her intensely, not worried, only curious perhaps.

Myra lowered the blade, tucking it into her belt as she had seen him do.

She didn't answer him though, remaining silent until he lost interest and began to walk them down the beach again. It was after a few minutes, when her head stopped swimming once more, that she spoke again.

"Thank you, Jaime. For everything."

Her voice was so quiet, Myra couldn't be completely certain if he had heard her or not, but his pace, she noted, seemed to slow considerably after that.

* * *

**Sansa**

"Twenty coppers for half a dozen apples? What sort of person agrees to this?"

The shopkeeper sniffed, nose held in the air like some flowery knight from the king's tourney. To think she once thought better of men like that.

"The kind who know good quality when they see it."

"If by quality, you mean dropping your cart on the Street of Steel and not picking it up again until it reached the bottom of the hill," Sansa retorted, turning the bruised fruit over in her hands. "I've seen better foodstuffs in the stables."

"Then why don't you get your food there and stop pestering me!"

She almost smirked at how beet red the man's face became. The two had crossed paths before. He had cheated her out of quite the sum until she picked up his tricks. The truth of the matter was: these apples  _were_ from the public stable. She'd seen him (and several others) there over the course of the month, picking through what they could before the gold cloaks took notice. The war was putting a strain on everyone.

"Perhaps I will," she agreed, replacing the fruit. "That way I'll have food and a full purse."

Sansa gripped her small bag tightly, and turned away from the vendor. She walked slowly, waiting.

Three.

Two.

One.

"Eighteen coppers."

"Ten," she called, not bothering to look back.

"Fifteen. I'll go no lower."

Smiling, Sansa returned to the cart and picked the best pieces before paying. She'd gotten much better at bartering. Where once her attempts had been ignored or downright shouted down, now most sellers bent to her will. Though, she could not say it was all her. People were desperate for money. Less than expected was still more than none.

Still, she knew her days of success were numbered. With food becoming scarcer, there would always be someone willing to pay more, or worse, willing to kill.

Fortunately, Sansa had been able to avoid that complication thus far. Syrena had taught her a thing or two, and Sansa had picked up other tricks as well, mostly through trial and error, a teacher that the handmaiden said had experience like no other. Where once Sansa had avoided people, now she stuck to crowded streets. No one was looking for Sansa Stark anymore, but a lone young woman in an abandoned alley? Trouble would find her faster than not.

She also learned to keep her ears open; she was constantly tuned into the other conversations around her, listening for key words or tones that would warn her of impending danger, or clue her into something to take advantage of. It was also how she learned of Robb's victories against Tywin Lannister, and Stannis Baratheon's defeat of his brother, Renly.

It was how she learned of the details of her father's trial.

Lords and ladies she had happily dined with, dreamed of being, spilling out foul lies about her father, about her sister. And it was all the queen's doing. She did not need Syrena's confession to see that now. Cersei had always been off, Sansa realized, and now she was no longer willfully ignorant to it.

A voice behind her caught Sansa's attention. Authoritative, frustrated, a gold cloak perhaps, or maybe a sellsword. Either way, it was no one she wanted to deal with.

As casually as she could, Sansa stepped aside, pretending to check her bag in the doorway of some abandoned building. She even offered an apple to the beggar at her feet, smiling at his kind words and toothless grinned. How she used to flee at the sight of men like him. Now she would give all her money to be in his company over the beautiful people of the Red Keep.

She watched the men pass her by from under her headscarf. Three gold cloaks, tense, their swords already drawn. Ever since they had butchered the bastard children of Robert Baratheon, they had been uneasy in Flea Bottom. The people kept their distance, but they had that look in their eyes: bloodlust. It was not unlike when they shouted for her father's death. Someone was bound to make a mistake eventually, and it would cost them dearly.

They paid her no mind, eyes glancing over her form like the rest of the filth. She couldn't remember the last time she had properly bathed versus scrubbing herself with sand and rainwater. Perhaps she really did look like everyone else now.

It was as she was about to continue on her journey that a large figure came to stand beside her. He did not wear the armor, but his shoulders bore that white cloak, as tarnished as it was, but it was his face that stood out to her. Burn marks marring the right side, reminders of the worst day of a poor boy's life as his brother punished him for touching a toy.

Sandor Clegane.

He was already looking at her when she caught sight of his face. Those dark, unreadable eyes were boring into her with an intensity that nearly floored her. And though he made no move to grab her, did not even appear to tense in any way, Sansa knew that he recognized her, dirty appearance and all.

"Little bird."

She ran.

Throwing her bag behind her as if it actually stood a chance of stopping someone as large as the Hound, Sansa fled down a narrow alleyway. Now was not the time to hide in groups of people. He'd still see her, and would plow through the crowds like some great war horse, all while she would get caught in the confusion. She had to lose him in the winding roads that snaked their way through King's Landing, even if it meant getting lost herself.

She leapt over bits of garbage and other debris, for once grateful for the foul clothing that Syrena had given her. Here, she was lighter, and stood little chance of getting caught on anything. Her clothing was slightly too short as well, so there was little need to pick up the loose fabric as she ran across the stonework. Still, it did little to ease her fears. The Hound was one of the greatest fighters she had ever seen. If she made one wrong move, she'd never escape him.

Sansa chanced a glance back before taking an abrupt turn. He was some distance behind her, running through things she had easily avoided. She must have surprised him if he was so far back. The Sansa Stark he knew would not have run. She'd have been a proper lady, timidly asking for the blessing of her freedom, a little bird bound for its cage once again.

She picked up the pace, overturning what carts and discarded furniture she could find, ignoring the shouts that quickly fell behind her. It did not matter. They would forget her come the morning. This would all be just a terrible dream.

Rounding successive corners, Sansa hoped to throw the Hound off her trail, but her final turn brought her face to face with a wall, and nowhere to hide. There were two doors in that narrow corridor, but neither gave way to her efforts to open them. Briefly, she thought to climb, but it would never work. That had been Bran's gift, Arya's, but not hers. She'd barely make it a foot off the ground.

As his heavy footfalls came to a stop behind her, Sansa felt her hope turn to ash and fade away.

And here she had thought she'd had none left.

"What in the seven hells are you doing, girl?" Sandor grunted. He sounded out of breath. It was strange to hear.

Sansa turned to him, blinking, though there were no tears. "Surviving."

He snorted. "Not in this shithole, you aren't. C'mon, little bird, time to return you to your cage."

The Hound took a step forward, and Sansa took a step back.

Now he laughed.

"Is this where you'd rather be, girl? With the robbers and the killers and the men who'd rape you as soon as they catch a glimpse of your pretty little face?"

Another step forward. Another step back.

"They take anything they can get, but for you, they'd find a special pleasure in what's between your legs."

Forward. Back. She was against the wall now, her fingers attempting to dig into the brickwork.

Sansa raised her chin. "Is this supposed to make me believe that I am better off trapped with the boy who murdered my father?"

"Take a look around, little bird. King's Landing may be larger, but a cage is still a cage."

"But it is one of my choosing."

"Is it now?"

Sansa opened her mouth to reply, but found that she had no answer. In her hesitation, the Hound closed the gap between them, and moved to grab her arm.

That was when he stumbled back in pain, shouting and swearing as he clawed at something on his back. Syrena appeared from behind him, bloody knife in her hand, eyes as wild and angry as they had been in the Red Keep. She lashed out again, driving the Hound into one of the closed doors as he narrowly avoiding getting slashed across the face.

"Sansa, run!" she shouted, continuing to attack with a ferocity that even Sandor Clegane seemed unable to match. He barely blocked her blows with his vambraces, her speed and proximity making it nearly impossible to draw his sword. Still, he was no gold cloak. Syrena had merely caught the man by surprise. This could not be kept up forever.

Running maybe ten feet, Sansa found herself turning back when she heard Syrena's shouts suddenly become cut off. The Hound had one hand around her wrist, while the other had grabbed her throat. With a shout of his own, he drove her across the corridor and slammed her into the building on the other side. Somehow, Syrena was still conscious, clawing at the hand on her neck with her free arm.

"I know you," he hissed, beating the knife out of her hand. "The Dornish cunt who works for the queen. What do you want with the Stark girl? Answer me!"

When he slammed her against the building again, Sansa reacted. She spotted a clay pot sitting on the ground and quickly grabbed it. Using all her strength, and what reach she had against his large form, Sansa broke the pot across the side of the Hound's head. She knew it would not be enough to render him unconscious, but once more, he was taken by surprise.

Reeling, his grip loosened on Syrena just enough. She kicked out, knocking him to the ground in a dazed state, before she fell over too, gasping and coughing. Sansa ran to her side, helping the handmaiden to her feet.

"You should…have run…like I said," Syrena choked out, leaning on Sansa slightly as she regained her balance.

"And when was the last time I ever actually listened to you," Sansa mumbled in reply.

She stopped then, glancing over her shoulder. The Hound still sat where he fell. Sansa doubted that he couldn't get up. It just seemed to her that he was choosing not to. Instead, he was watching them walk away, a strange look on his face only highlighted further by the droplets of blood that were beginning to travel down his scarred skin.

Pausing, Sansa made sure that Syrena could stand properly by herself before gently letting her go.

"What are you doing?" Syrena asked, reaching out to her.

"Don't worry," she replied softly. "He won't hurt me."

Sansa walked toward the Hound, carefully unwrapping her headscarf. She felt her dark waves tumble down her back as she bunched the fabric up in her hands. As she stood by his side, the man still tall even as he sat on the ground, she half expected him to bark out about not needing her pity, but he said nothing as she took the fabric and pressed it against the wound. She held it there a moment until his own hand moved to take it, briefly brushing against hers.

"I'm a wolf, not a little bird," Sansa said, stepping back. "And this  _is_  my choice."

* * *

**Jaime**

"There are bodies in the water."

Jaime looked up from where he rested under a willow tree. They had taken shelter beneath it the evening before, since enclosed spaces were likely to send Myra into a panic. Not that she was doing any better without. Her sleep was racked with nightmares. She'd toss and turn, and with every little desperate sound that escaped her throat, Jaime could not help but feel that knife deep in his chest turn a little bit more.

The first night, he had tried waking her, and nearly got stabbed for his efforts. Ever since, he'd taken to covering her in his cloak. She seemed to respond well enough to that, and there was the added benefit of her red-faced embarrassment when she woke up wrapped in his clothing. It happened every morning without fail, and he relished poking fun at her propriety before her somber mood returned.

One day, he had thought. One day it might work.

Standing, Jaime went to stand beside Myra, who'd taken the last watch and, he presumed, hadn't moved from that very spot since she did so.

He followed her gaze and sure enough, maybe twenty feet away, were three large forms bobbing in the current. Bloated and misshapen, they had clearly been dead for days, and could have come from anywhere in the Trident. The rains had nearly flooded certain areas and caused the river to flow faster than usual.

Turning his gaze westward, Jaime almost immediately unsheathed his sword.

Myra was at his side in an instant. "What is it?"

"Smoke."

Nearly an hour later and they still had yet to reach the gray plumes that billowed into the sky. They were all thin wisps at this point, but given how widespread they were, Jaime imagined there had been a great fire recently. There probably wasn't much left of whatever town was up ahead. He wondered if this was going to be the fate of every place they encountered.

_This is what you wanted,_ Tyrion's voice chided, triumphantly returning.  _You said it yourself, the Riverlands were going to burn._

And the Vale, and every person standing between him and Cersei. Yes, he remembered his words well, and how much he had meant them.

_Burn them all!_

Jaime took a breath, grasping his sword tighter and looking up. Fortunately, Myra was not looking in his direction. She'd found some stray cloth on the ground and was examining it intently.

"Red salmon on a white field…" she murmured, thoughtful. The words meant little to him. He knew the sigils of his father's bannermen well enough, and a few others that had piqued his interest over the years, mostly those belonging to well-fought knights, or the occasional house that had angered Cersei too much. He was certain he'd been taught it at some point in his life, but there were far more important things to remember than obscure houses on the other side of the country.

"House Mooten," Myra continued, finally looking back to him. "We're at Maidenpool."

He felt his eyebrows rise slightly. House Mooten may have meant nothing to him, but he'd at least heard of Maidenpool. It was a busy harbor city, and one of the larger places that rested along the Trident. More importantly, these were lands that would have been sworn to Robb Stark.

And now they were burning.

Myra seemed to realize the same thing, lamely letting the fabric fall to the ground and wrapping her arms around herself again.

Within the next hour, they could see the keep of the city looming in the distance, as well as the pink of its outer walls. As they stood at the crest of a hill, the carnage of the war spread out before them. Dead horses and carts were strewn throughout the field leading up to the city, while along the road, smallfolk were evacuating, while others had taken to cleaning up the dead. Someone was wailing in the distance, and a thick stench was beginning to rise in the air.

What Jaime didn't see was any sign of Lannister forces. If they'd remained, there would have been a garrison resting outside the walls. Instead, it seemed whomever the commander was had been satisfied enough with sacking the town and leaving it to rot.

It sounded like something Ser Gregor would do. Then again, there were still living people to be found.

The two made their way slowly toward the city, carefully picking through the field. Jaime sheathed his sword again, and helped Myra through the wreckage, noting how closely she was walking beside him now. It wasn't the dead, he knew, that were making her wary; it was the living she took issue with now.

He said nothing, though, as she began to walk just behind him, using his body to shelter her from the gazes of others. Whatever made her feel more comfortable.

However, no one looked at them as they approached the city. Their eyes were locked to the ground as they ambled out into the unknown, looking for someplace safe, he imagined. In fact, no one paid any attention to them. He and Myra were like anyone else.

They made their way through the gates, which had been broken and were currently lying scattered across the ground, and into the city. The stench was worse here, where the walls blocked the wind and the added smoke choked what clean air was left. He felt his eyes sting as they made their way past several smoldering buildings. Some people were still attempting to salvage the situation with water and sand, while others looked on, a defeated sag in their shoulders.

Groups had gathered at the large pool in the center of town, dragging the bodies out of the water, while others were attempting to cut down their loved ones that had been strung up from whatever high places could be found. Widows wailed and the wounded moaned from where they had been gathered, with little hope of getting help.

Myra glanced up at him, wide, gray eyes just peeking out from where her sleeve covered her nose. She didn't want to be there.

"We don't have much choice," Jaime said, answering her unspoken query.

At some point, a man drew too close for Myra's liking. She quietly backed away behind Jaime as he drew his sword. The man thought better of it, dashing away immediately. Just because he had given her a dagger didn't mean she was ready to use it again. Still, he was more comfortable with the idea of her having one, when she wasn't asleep that was. `

The two continued through the town, looking for a sign of anything useful, but the inns were abandoned and broken, and the shops burned. They wandered until they met the walls of the keep, the only thing in Maidenpool that appeared to be intact. With its high walls and thick gates, it was possible that whichever army passed through did not have the means to breach it.

Two archers sat atop the wall, watching as citizens gathered below them, cursing and throwing rubbish.

"Seems this Lord Mooten spent the sacking safely tucked away," Jaime observed, looking down at Myra. "The  _great_  bannerman of the King in the North."

Her narrowed eyes only served to entertain him further.

"You could stay here, you know," he continued. "Convince them to let you in and you'd be well off. Food, clothing, a raven to your brother. He'd probably cut straight through the Riverlands after hearing you're here."

He watched her consider it. There was no mistaking that hopeful glint in her eyes at the prospect of seeing her family again, but she was hesitating. Myra glanced around them again, at the destruction and the ignored cries of the people, and she frowned.

"I'd much rather take my chances with you," she responded, sounding more certain than she had in days.

Jaime wanted to say he wasn't surprised. A man like Lord Mooten, who willingly ignored the plight of his people, would not sit well with Myra, and the prospect of remaining in Maidenpool as it continued to smoke and smell was not very inviting either. But he was offering her the very real chance of seeing her family again, and being safe for the first time in months. Surely that outweighed even her incredibly weighty moral compass.

_Tell her to stay!_  the voice shouted.  _If she leaves with you, she won't survive._

_Tell her to_ stay.

"Alright," he said.

If she wanted to die, it was hardly his problem, or so went the lie he told himself in hopes of covering up whatever he felt in his chest. The knife had loosened, and he could breathe a little more. Why was that a bad thing to him?

They wandered outside the town, following the road some ways, looking for anyone willing to sell anything. For nearly all the coin he had taken off the outlaws, Jaime managed to buy a horse from a farmer whose crops had been razed. It was an older beast, but large and sturdy; it would do well for them.

Myra had disappeared from his side. Jaime searched for her among the refugees, hand on the hilt of his sword, but he relaxed upon seeing her a little ways down the road.

She was kneeling before a little girl with blonde curls and tattered clothes that were far too big for her. The girl was showing her a small doll she owned. Jaime was suddenly struck by the similarity to the dead girl they had found on the road. If Myra noticed, she did not show it. She was too busy taking interest in the girl's plaything, holding it gently in her hands and inspecting it with exaggerated facial expressions that the child seemed to enjoy.

The girl took her doll back and gave Myra a hug. She chuckled, giving the child a small kiss on the cheek.

As if sensing his scrutiny, Myra turned to him, a large grin stretching across her features, her eyes practically alight with joy. He'd never seen her so happy before; he couldn't remember seeing anyone that happy in a long time. Tyrion maybe, after a night of drinking and a good joke, certainly not their father, and Cersei's happiness was always reserved, like it would be used as a weapon against her otherwise.

But here was Myra Stark, a lady of a noble house, holding this small peasant child as if she was the greatest treasure on the earth, and finding bottomless joy in her presence.

Jaime couldn't help himself.

He smiled back.


	25. The Vow

**Myra**

"I think you like that beast more than me."

Myra blinked, startled from her reverie of forests and howls on the breeze. She turned to Jaime, who still sat on the water's edge filling his water skin, catching the mischievous glint in his green eyes before he returned to his task.

Things had been…easier. That was not to say she was completely recovered, or whatever word there was for such an experience (she doubted she ever would be the same again), but sleep came a little faster and lasted a little longer. Her mind did not wander so endlessly, and smiles were not so difficult to produce. Acquiring a horse had done wonders to ease her mind, and seeing that little girl days ago seemed to return something to her. It was a taste of home, perhaps, and a reminder of a young woman who dreamed of the sea.

Jaime Lannister, however, may have been the biggest change. Seeing that the worst had passed, he no longer hovered as he once had, and his particular brand of humor had returned full force: brash, nagging, improper to a fault. She had to wonder if he had reined it in a little for her sake, or if she had just grown used to it over time. It certainly did not bother her as it used to. In fact, she welcomed it with open arms.

He was certainly more accepting of conversation though, that much she could tell. It made the passage of time far less painful. They didn't speak of much, usually whatever surrounded them, and occasionally happier times with their families, both parties avoiding particular subjects as best they could, but it was clear that whatever barrier that had existed between them in the beginning had begun to wear away. She supposed being stuck together would do that.

Unhappy with the lack of attention, the chestnut plow horse they had bought began to nip at her fingers until she returned to stroking his muzzle.

"Of course I do," Myra replied, fingers tracing the white blaze that marked its head. "He's quiet, respectful, and he certainly smells better."

Snorting, Jaime stood. "You don't exactly smell like flowers either, Stark."

Myra smirked, gathering the horse's reins. He'd taken to using her last name whenever she irked him. She usually went back to calling him 'Ser Jaime,' which the man might have found the most annoying of all.

Positioning herself, Myra put her foot in the stirrup and, with practiced ease, swung herself into the saddle. She nudged the horse forward, bringing him beside Jaime on the bank. Sniffing at his clothes, the creature decided the rocks beneath its hooves were a far more interesting subject.

"What are you doing?" Jaime asked, looking up at her.

"I have been clinging to your back for the better part of three days," Myra replied with a shrug. "Now it's your turn."

Jaime rolled his eyes at her childish response, but did not offer any resistance. He tucked the water skin into the saddle pack and climbed onto the saddle behind her.

Briefly, Myra wondered if she hadn't made a mistake. The pressure of a body behind her made a deep chill crawl up her spine. She stiffened slightly at the movement, but Jaime made no indication that he noticed. Rather, he seemed to understand how uncomfortable it might make her. Aside from a steadying hand on her shoulder, he made no move to touch any other part of her.

Clicking her tongue, Myra urged the horse along, moving them just into the tree line, still following the ever-flowing waterway. The further west they traveled, the thinner the Bay of Crabs became. It would turn into the Trident soon enough. At the very least, they'd be certain then that there would be no sign of Stannis Baratheon's men, not that there had been any so far. She wondered if the man even knew, or cared, that his prisoners were running free.

After some time, Myra felt herself relax. She didn't lean into Jaime, but she no longer felt the need to bolt upright every time her back bumped into him. It occurred to her that she hadn't ridden with someone behind her for an age, not since her father had first taught her how to hold the reins when she was a child.

Myra knew now that her fears had been silly. Her father would not have hated her for what she did. If anything, he would have hated himself for having not been able to protect her, for being, distantly, to blame for the situation she was in. But at that moment, with all her emotions and the memories still fresh on her mind, she'd been able to think of nothing but. Logic had an uphill battle in times like that.

It was just another thing she was grateful to Jaime for. He wasn't the best man for emotional comfort, but his honesty did far more than he could imagine.

She tried to picture the look on her father's face had he seen her at this very moment…

"You're doing it again," Jaime called from behind her.

"Hmm?"

"You're overthinking something," he continued. "You look at your hands and play with them. I bet you're even biting your lip."

Myra ignored that, straightening her mouth. "I was just…I can't remember my father's face."

"Well, Ned Stark was certainly a dull looking man. I can't imagine many people do."

She elbowed him. Terrible humor may have been Jaime Lannister's backwards way of empathy, but that didn't mean she had to completely tolerate it.

Jaime only chuckled, unapologetic. "Think of a favorite memory. It makes things easier."

The godswood, her first snowfall. She'd chased the flakes around the weirwood for hours, red-faced and breathless, catching as many as she could on her tongue. Her father came searching for her, since her mother was still so wary of the place, and chuckled at the sight of his daughter collapsed on the ground, frantically flailing her arms in the white stuff.

That was the first smile of his she could remember, a proper, toothy grin that showed off the laughing lines on his face. How funny it had looked to her, and she had told him just as much.

It had only made his smile grow.

"Do you have one?" she asked, her voice hollow. Suddenly, seeing her father's face was the last thing she wanted.

"Of my father?" Jaime asked, sounding a little surprised. She felt him shrug. "Fond family memories aren't exactly what Lord Tywin is known for. I'm told he smiled once, but I think Uncle Kevan was making that up."

"What about your mother?"

The silence that followed stretched for an unbearable amount of time.

"She liked to sing."

That was all he said, and Myra did not press him on the matter. She knew Lady Joanna had died some years ago when Tyrion was born, but it was still clearly a sore subject for Jaime. Losing a parent at such a young age, she could not imagine what that would have done to her.

Myra almost turned to look at him, but thought better of it. Some things were better left to what privacy a person was afforded. Still, she could not help but wonder what she would see in those green eyes now.

* * *

Late in the afternoon, they came across the burnt wreckage of a galley on the shoreline. It had clearly been there for days, even weeks, and had been picked over by every scavenger imaginable, leaving only the blackened wood skeleton. Myra watched it briefly, listening to wood creak as the waves pushed into the hull.

Behind her, Jaime sighed. "We're the only people looking for the war, and somehow the only ones who can't find it either."

Myra felt her lips twitch. "Well, I've always wanted to visit the Sunset Sea."

Her companion did not think it very funny.

Across the water, Myra spotted a group of buildings. They seemed like rickety little things, ready to fall into the bay if the right storm came through.

"Saltpans," Jaime said, sounding none too happy about it.

She looked back at him, watching as his eyes attempted to burn down the little village all their own. "You know it?"

"I was dragged through most of it."

Myra nodded, remembering how he'd looked when the smallfolk had brought him onto Dragonstone. How long ago had that been? It was so hard to say now.

Fortunately for Jaime, they were on the wrong side of the river, so Saltpans could remain a distant, bad memory. But as they continued along the shoreline, it became clear that this bank was not unoccupied. The trees were beginning to thin, and around the bend, a dock stretched out across the water, with a large, but worn barge tied to it, undoubtedly to ferry passengers to the other shore. River crossings were a rare blessing along the Trident, especially here where the mouth of the river was so wide.

Eventually, a building could be made out between the trees. It stood two stories tall, and was quite large for such an isolated location, having its own stable and a little, weathered sign that swung back and forth in the breeze.

An inn that had thus far escaped the devastation of the war was quite the miracle.

Myra guided the horse up to the building. No one was outside, but there were loud voices coming from within, rowdy conversations over drink. From a partially open window, the smell of bread wafted out to meet them. Her mouth began to water.

"Do you suppose we have enough money?" she asked, longing for the feel of a proper bed, or warm water. Even the thought of a roof over her head almost made her sigh.

"Maybe," Jaime replied, clear longing in his voice as well. "But it would only be for one room."

"Then I certainly hope you like the floor."

Jaime snorted, no doubt some other profane comment on his lips, but before he got the chance to speak, the door slammed open, revealing three men. They wore undistinguished armor and drab leathers, but what drew Myra's attention were the swords at their waists. They were well-crafted things, much finer than someone dressed as they were would possess. These were not bandits or local guardsmen. They were something more.

The three came to a halt, eyes widening at the sight before them.

"It's him," one said, almost in awe.

His reaction time faster, Jaime ripped the reins from her grasp and turned the horse about, putting their backs to the men, or his at least, and leaving them free to flee the area should anything go wrong. Myra felt him reach for his sword.

"No need for that, Ser Jaime!" another called out. He was a tall man with a distinguished face and long, black hair. The apparent leader of the group, he held his hands up calmly, showing them that he meant no harm.

Myra glanced back, seeing Jaime's eyes widen at hearing his name.

"We've come from King's Landing," the man continued. "The queen sent us to find you."

* * *

She supposed the bed was comfortable, everything she'd been dreaming of every night when she had to lie on the cold, hard ground, but Myra could not bring herself to care about that now.

Sitting on the edge, she stared at her hands in the faint glow of the candlelight. They were shaking.

What a fool she was.

There was a knock at the door.

"It's me," Jaime called from the other side.

Myra stared at the door for some time, wondering if she shouldn't just keep it closed. Jaime would grow bored eventually and leave her. He'd wander down into the tavern and pick up the conversation with those three men again, the Lannister soldiers who'd been hunting for him for weeks. Apparently there were a dozen similar groups around the Crownlands and the Trident, searching.

Had Robb sent anyone? Were they desperately searching for her too?

She could keep the door closed tomorrow too, and the next day, however long it would take for them to leave her alone, but she knew it would end no better than going with them. At least she stood some chance of survival in King's Landing, over going off on her own.

When she opened the door, Jaime burst inside, a clear spring in his step. And why should he not be excited? He was going home.

"Found some new clothes for you. I think they should fit," he said, tossing some breeches and a thick tunic onto the bed. There was even a new cloak. "If not, you'll still look far less ridiculous than you do now."

He turned back to her then, and Myra believed she was looking at a complete stranger. Jaime had already cleaned up. His hair was still wet and shone in the flickering light, and his beard was gone. He almost looked like the man she knew back in King's Landing, a man she had not necessarily feared, but took some precaution with at the least, and marveled at when he did something unexpected; he had been an enigma then.

But the eyes were different. There was a warmth and familiarity in them that he'd not afforded anyone, her especially. It was what convinced her that she hadn't just stepped into some terrible dream.

"What?" he asked, frowning.

Myra opened her mouth, but found the words unwilling. She shut the door, ignoring the small voice that shouted in the back of her mind; she and Jaime were long past the lines of propriety.

"I'm…glad for you. You get to return to your family, to…" She couldn't bring herself to say the words, but Jaime would realize what she meant. "And I won't. I don't know when I'll see my mother or brothers again. I should have just stayed in Maidenpool."

"Then why didn't you?"

His words weren't harsh; his tone held a long brewing curiosity, probably from the time she'd said she would rather go with him, yet she flinched at them nonetheless. She felt a little ashamed at having not done so, having gone with him instead of taking her chances at seeing home again. There had been a time when she would have readily thrown herself at any opportunity, no matter how slight, to see Robb again, and with that question, she was forced to face what she had done. No matter what way she phrased it, in her heart she knew she had chosen him over her brother, as unintentional as it seemed, and she would have to live with that.

"You saw the place; you smelled it. I couldn't stay there and ignore what was happening, I couldn't…" She took a breath, sick of her own excuses. "I don't know Lord Mooten, Jaime. Is he cruel or kind? Would he treat me well or sell me to the next army that passes by in order to spare his keep?"

She met his eyes. "But I know  _you_."

Silence was what met her, yet the look in Jaime's eyes was unbearably loud. The intensity in them was so much that she had to look away. She felt like a silly little girl again, clinging to fantasies of chivalrous knights. Jaime was not that way, he never claimed to be that way, even if his actions might have proven otherwise. This was not a story she'd read in her books; this was not going to end well.

"I'll watch out for you," he murmured, so softly that Myra thought she might have imagined it.

"What?" she asked, unable to contain the small amount of hope bursting in her chest.

"When we return to King's Landing, I'll make certain no harm comes to you. You may be a…prisoner, but you'll have free rein of the Red Keep. I won't let them put you in another cell."

Myra smiled gently. It was certainly a nice dream.

"Jaime, you're a member of the Kingsguard, and you must do what your king com-"

"Fuck the Kingsguard," he said, cutting her off. He did not raise his voice, but there was something about the tone that demanded her attention. "I've done more than my fair share, and after what I did, Barristan Selmy certainly won't welcome me back with open arms."

She thought to ask, but there were some things about Jaime Lannister that Myra knew she was better off not knowing.

"Jaime-"

"I've sworn quite a lot of vows, and broken most of them," he continued, stepping closer. "But I promise you this, Myra Stark, you'll be safe with me."

* * *

**Sansa**

Dorne. She was going to Dorne.

A thousand thoughts had swum through her head when Syrena had finally told her about the plan. It was mostly silly things: vaguely remembered house sigils from lessons, how the sun would ruin her skin, Arya's stories of Nymeria…

But above it all, a gleeful voice had cried out and silenced the rest.

She was leaving King's Landing.

She was  _leaving_.

A grin had broken out across her face at that thought, the first genuine piece of relief and happiness she had felt in so long. And then Syrena had brought her some clothes. For the time being, she would pose as a new handmaiden to Myrcella, at least until they reached the South. Getting her hands on actual, well-made fabric that neither scratched her skin nor looked like something had died in it finally drove her over the edge.

Sansa had giggled, then she laughed, full and hearty. The feeling was so foreign to her that she found it almost frightening, but then she began to relish it, dancing about the room with the dress in her hands like she was back at one of the tourney feasts. By the time she stopped, there were tears in her eyes.

Of course, when she had settled, the more respectable, cautious thoughts began to probe at her joy.

The first was an obvious one: Dorne was even further from Winterfell than King's Landing. And while it may have been a more pleasant experience than essentially being under Joffrey's boot, Dorne was more or less a desert. Escaping wherever she was headed, if she needed to, would be far more difficult than the rolling hills and forests of the Crownlands.

The other, slightly more unnerving, revelation was that Syrena was from Dorne, which was all the more personal detail the woman had given her. It occurred to her that she might just be a piece being shuffled from one end of the board to the other, to be used to the advantage of someone else.

But after a night of mulling it over, because sleep was not going to come to her no matter how hard she tried, Sansa decided that a pawn she may be, but everything so far was vastly preferable to what she had right now. It was an agreeable situation for everyone involved, and if that ever changed, then she would deal with it.

The wide-eyed girl who had come to King's Landing full of dreams and a false sense of love was no longer here. She would survive no matter what came her way.

She had to.

When dawn broke, Sansa watched the sun rise from the little window of her sad, little home. The day Myra had left had been much like this one, beautiful, perfect, still. It had made Sansa unhappy. She'd wanted it to rain and storm, to keep her sister in the city and to properly reflect how both she and Arya felt about the situation.

How little they knew then. The silence  _was_ the storm.

Something was going to happen today.

Dressing in silence, Sansa fought to quell the excitement that was bubbling inside of her. Anything could happen, and the day might very well end with her back here, no better off than she had been before.

Or worse, back in the Red Keep.

Taking a breath, Sansa ignored that particular thought, and took a good look at herself in the water basin. Her silken outfit was red, perfect for a handmaiden to a Lannister. She once thought the color would look terrible with her hair, but it was dark now and seemed to match perfectly.

How much older she looked. Sansa tilted her head this way and that, attempting to find the youthful side of herself again, but try as she might, she thought she just looked old. Well, not  _old_ , but certainly far older than she was. Her eyes had dulled, her cheeks had thinned, and her face looked far too natural with that deep frown.

Yet, at that thought, she had to smile a little. She really was her father's daughter.

Sansa left then, not bothering to look back at the place that had been her shelter for so long. What was there to remember?

Syrena met her some blocks away, dressed in heavy clothing. She led her through alleys and other discreet back ways, everything she could to avoid attracting too much attention, but the morning was quiet and lazy. Even those who were up had a sleepy look to their eyes. No one saw them, not truly. No one saw anyone here.

They came to the dock, where a royal barge waited to take Myrcella to the ship. It sat just outside Blackwater Bay now, sails still tied up and masts bare, but Sansa could tell it was a large galley, and fast. They would have to be to avoid Stannis. Perhaps that was also why it flew the Martell sigil instead.

Aside from the rowers, who were busy fidgeting with the ropes and oars, one man stood at the docks. She did not need to see his face; she had known he would be there.

Sandor Clegane did not turn to face them, but it was clear that he was aware of their presence. His shoulders shifted ever so slightly and his feet parted a little more. He certainly wasn't going to be caught off guard this time.

Syrena eyed him warily, stepping between them as they came to a halt. Sansa caught the glint of a dagger in her hand.

"I'm not here for you," the Hound mumbled, side-eying Syrena. "So you can fuck off."

The handmaiden looked ready to say something, but Sansa cut her off, grabbing her hand gently. Taking the hint, Syrena backed away. Though she was out of sight, Sansa imagined she wasn't actually far.

"How did you know?" Sansa asked, not turning to the towering man beside her. She knew he wasn't looking at her; she'd feel it.

"I guessed."

"It was a good guess."

"Not really."

They stood in silence, with only the roll of the waves to break the calm that had settled. A fisherman yelled in the distance; a dog barked. The breeze picked up and gently blew her skirts.

"You still planning on going through with this?" he asked eventually, eyes still focused on the little boat.

"Yes."

"It's a stupid plan."

"Probably."

"And another cage."

"I know."

The Hound finally looked at her, eyes as intense as they ever were. He was someone she could not read. Or perhaps she just did not wish to. There were some things that she did not need to know.

His eyes flicked up, catching sight of something.

"Alright, wolf, time to go."

Sansa could not say if he was mocking her or not.

Syrena returned to her side, leading her toward the boat. "Just stay calm and they will never know. No one is looking for you here."

Nodding, Sansa let the Hound help her into the boat.

"May I ask why?"

"You can," was his gruff reply.

_But you won't answer_ , Sansa thought. Of course he would not. His sad little tales were for when he was far too drunk to care. She wondered if he would be drunk tonight.

The royal caravan arrived not long after.

Sansa watched them from the boat, partially hidden by the curtains of the canopy. Despite Syrena's words, she could feel the fear rising within her. What if they did recognize her? The Hound had, and she had spent far less time with him than Joffrey or Cersei. Surely they would know. They had been searching for so long after all.

But when Joffrey stepped out of his litter, the fear disappeared. Sansa felt an anger grow within her. She gripped the canopy tightly, wishing now that she were no longer on the boat; she could get close to him, walk right up to him without any suspicion.

She could kill him.

"Careful, girl," the Hound warned, stepping away. "A wolf's no match for a group of lions."

Sansa felt her breath release. He was right of course. Someone was always right. Just never her.

But one day, she thought. One day she would look down on his corpse and she would smile.

The barge rocked as a man entered. He was dressed as one of the Kingsguard, and though the helmet obscured his face, Sansa realized she knew the man. He was Ser Arys Oakheart, one of the younger, and kinder, members. She'd been escorted by him once or twice, and had found him charming in his own way. Unlike the others, he had always actively tried to converse with her.

As he nodded at her, however, Sansa realized that he had no idea who she was. She could have picked him out of a crowd, but here, alone and face-to-face, Ser Arys did not recognize her.

She was not certain if that was a testament to how much she had changed or how little he had cared.

"My lady," he said with a nod, his voice courteous, as it has always been.

"Ser Arys," she replied.

"Ah, I see you know me." Ser Arys smiled. If only he knew how foolish he seemed to her just now. "I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage."

"Alayne, Ser Arys," Sansa said, thinking fast. She thought she had heard the name somewhere once. "Just Alayne."

He nodded again, and was silent thereafter.

Myrcella boarded not long after. She was quiet, clearly shaken, but she did not cry. Despite herself, Sansa felt a little proud of the girl. Not so long ago, that had been her, but they had both been proper ladies and did as they were told.

_Besides_ , she thought.  _No one should cry for Joffrey._

The boat began to depart, rocking unsteadily in the shallow waters. Sansa watched the shoreline, locking eyes with both Cersei and Joffrey more than once, but she knew they were not looking at her. Neither of them could see her. She truly was no one now.

With that thought, she gave King's Landing one last smile.

* * *

**Jaime**

He'd left Myra to clean herself up and returned downstairs, his mind swimming. The barkeep seemed to notice his state and pushed a tankard in front of him as soon as he settled in a chair. He drank the ale so quickly that he nearly choked, never mind that it tasted like piss; he needed something to calm the thoughts swarming him.

What had he just done?

Of course, he knew what he did. He'd spoken the damn words as readily as any other vow he had taken, only there were no witnesses this time, the White Bull wasn't there to fasten a pretty little cloak on his back. Just a solemn little Northern girl whose eyes had grown so wide, he'd thought they'd never close again.

And the smile she'd given him after that…

Cersei was going to kill him.

Jaime motioned to the barkeep, getting his empty tankard replaced. He'd made it halfway through when the soldiers from earlier sat at his table.

"Now that's the Ser Jaime I remember," the leader, Jaron, commented. He, too, got the barkeep's attention. A serving wench returned some time later with full tankards of ale for the three. "Look just like you did at the tourney."

"Minus the helmet," snickered the ginger soldier, Garrel or something. The third man, bald with a thick, blonde beard, clearly the largest in the group, shook his head. He couldn't recall that one's name.

Jaime put his ale down, leveling a hard glare at the impudent soldier. "Let me make this clear. You may be helping me, but that neither makes us comrades nor equals. Speak of me like that again and I'll beat your brains out with my drink."

Now the bald one was laughing.

Jaron, the mediator as well, shoved an ale in Garrel's direction, and took control of the conversation again. "I have to say, Ser Jaime, we weren't expecting to find you all the way out here. The boys and I were going to cross the river come morning and make our way back east. Seems you got lucky."

Jaime only nodded, keeping his gaze on the ginger. The boy refused to look up from his drink.

"Tell us, how did you escape Dragonstone?"

_I need you to trust me._

_I do._

He took another drink. "We jumped off a cliff."

Eyes widened around the table, but no one commented any further on that.

Putting the ale down, Jaime leaned forward on the table. His personal conflicts could wait until later. There were things he needed to know.

"What is happening in King's Landing? Has Stannis attacked?"

Jaron shook his head. "Last we heard, he was still cleaning up the mess he made in the Stormlands. Renly was killed by one of his own men and his armies scattered. But he could arrive any day now. Lord Tyrion has been planning a defense."

Gods knew he was relieved to hear Tyrion was alive. There'd been no word since that day in the Vale, but still, this was the last thing he expected to hear about his little brother. Planning a defense? Was there really no one else in that bloody keep?

"What does my brother have to do with anything?"

"He's Hand of the King," the bald one replied.

Seven hells, this day was something else.

"What about my father? Lord Tywin could throw Stannis back into the Blackwater with his eyes closed."

"That he could, Ser Jaime," Jaron agreed. "But Robb Stark's been giving him some trouble."

The bald one nodded. "He's won every battle against your lord father."

Jaime finished the second tankard.

Tywin Lannister was one of the few constants in his life, this immovable object who managed to command the entirety of Westeros without ever being crowned king. It didn't matter whose ass sat on the Iron Throne. Everyone knew where the power truly belonged. The thought of him losing anything was something that did not quite connect with him; the last time had been when his fleets had burned at Lannisport, but even sleeping lions were prone to surprise attacks. But actual, orchestrated battles? No, Lord Tywin did not lose those.

Until now.

Was that Myra laughing in the back of his mind?

He needed another ale.

"Not that it matters now," Garrel grumbled, eyes stuck to the bottom of his drink.

"What does that mean?" Jaime asked, accepting another tankard.

Jaron smirked. "They call him the King Who Lost the North now. That Greyjoy he's so fond of took Winterfell with his father's men. Killed the Stark boys while he was at it."

If he continued speaking, Jaime did not hear it. The room had become overwhelmingly silent to him, despite the robust conversations that surrounded them, the shouting of wenches assaulted by the men they served, and the crackle of the fire just behind him. No, nothing made its way to him, only the sound of his breathing and the sudden gasp of a small boy pushed from a window.

Unwittingly, his eyes shifted to the stairwell.

He didn't want to tell her. Gods knew the past few months had been one terrible thing right after the other. A few days of blissful ignorance was something she could use, something they both could have used, but Jaime had no doubt that word would get out eventually. One of these men seated with him would say something, whether unintentionally or because they wanted to see another Stark suffer. After all, they were under no obligation to her. She would learn the truth, and he preferred that it not be in so callous a way.

So, it  _had_  to be him.

At which point, he doubted he would ever see that smile of hers again.

Suddenly, it seemed so easy to understand Ned Stark.

Blinking, Jaime found three sets of eyes on him. He ran a hand over his face, pushing his drink away.

"Are you alright, Ser Jaime?" Jaron asked.

"It's been a long journey," he sighed, wondering why he was bothering to make an excuse. It was hardly his concern what they thought. "I'm not used to such accommodations, or conversations for that matter."

"S'pose the girl wouldn't be good for much," Garrel snorted.

Jaime tilted his head, feeling his hand clench. "Need I remind you that 'the girl' is Myra Stark? Enemy or not, she is a lady of a noble house, and thus worth far more than your little life."

Cersei couldn't have sent quiet soldiers, could she? He thought discretion was a favored trait, but perhaps the war had made them all desperate.

"Is that why you're still with her?" Jaron asked, drawing attention away from his idiot counterpart again. "Cause she's worth something?"

"Well, I couldn't very well leave her. It'd be in poor taste."

He could see the wheels turning in their heads. The thought of the Kingslayer caring about how anything happened appeared to be too much for their little minds. Of course they would have expected him to dump her the instant he was able. Perhaps he would have, once. It was hard to say. Quite a lot had changed since Winterfell. Too much.

The bald one mumbled something about taking a piss. He watched the man lumber away through the crowded area. A few locals watched him warily, but no one made a move. Drunk, armed men were something no one wanted to deal with now.

The other two continued chatting, a little too friendly for Jaime's liking, but he dealt with it. He supposed he owed these men something, though he wasn't entirely certain how only three more soldiers were supposed to improve his chances.

"How do you plan on getting us back to King's Landing?" Jaime asked after some time.

Jaron was quiet a moment, considering. "I'm afraid we can't beat Stannis back, but we're still ahead of the Stark forces. Your father's taken most of the Kingsroad, so with well-rested horses, the four of us should make good time without much interference. Not many locals want to deal with the Kingsl-"

"Five," Jaime interrupted.

"Ser?"

"You said 'the four of us.' There are five of us."

The man blinked then nodded. "Of course, Ser Jaime. The lady is so quiet, I forget about her. The queen will be happy to have a Stark back in King's Landing."

That wasn't the word he would use for it.

Jaime often wondered how Cersei would react to seeing him again. With Robert gone, there would be little to worry about, not that they were ever too concerned with him to begin with. The king wanted as little to do with her as possible, which was one thing the two could agree upon at least.

He imagined she would make him wait. She always did, as much as it hurt both of them; she would come when he least expected her, naked and beautiful, his perfect other half. She would straddle him and tease, resisting his efforts because it pleased her. And she would whisper to him…

_It won't be enough._

The men hadn't moved, though Jaime could have sworn he jumped. He shook his head, clearing the strange words from his mind as he stood.

"I think your friend had the right idea," he said, excusing himself from the table. He wandered through the room, ignoring the strange looks he received and the curious whispers. That was something he certainly hadn't missed.

Stepping outside, Jaime took a deep breath. Night had fallen and the air was bitter cold. He could see his breath. Had fall arrived, he wondered? It seemed appropriate given everything else that had happened.

He wandered around to the back of the building, preferring not to present himself to anyone else who might arrive at the inn. Piles of logs made a sort of fencing against the woods, some half rotting, and a little boy watched him briefly before disappearing back inside through another door. The night was strangely quiet, even with the low hum of the people inside.

A little too quiet, if he was being honest with himself.

Jaime figured he was being paranoid, weeks on the run would do that to a person, but he could not help but feel that something was off.

"Are you out here?" he called out, suddenly wishing that he'd been paying more attention when the men had introduced themselves. "The bald one. I can't remember your name. Sorry about that."

He was met with silence.

Straining his eyes, Jaime wandered around the darkness for some time. He searched around the building and even near the stables, where their horse gave a soft whinny at his approach, but there was no sign of him.

No one was outside.

Something cold made its way up his spine.

_The four of us._

_Four._

He ran.

The front entrance was too crowded and would attract attention, so Jaime ran through the door at the back of the inn. He ignored the shouting of the kitchen wench and went straight to the stairs, taking them three at a time. The servant's stairs led straight to where he wanted to be: the washroom.

Throwing the door open, Jaime was met with a yelp and the sloshing of water.

Myra's wide eyes were peering at him from over the lip of the washtub as her hand frantically grasped for a towel that would never be within her reach if she wanted to keep her modesty intact.

He sighed, shutting the door.

"Jaime fucking Lannister, what in the seven he-"

Putting his hand on her mouth, Jaime cut off whatever other expletives she would have thrown at him. Some part of him, deep down, was no doubt entertained, but they did not have time for that right now.

"Listen to me, I'm not here to hurt you," he whispered, grabbing her hand as it tried to fight him, ignoring the fear in her gaze. Of course she was afraid. She was naked and here he was holding her down. No amount of vows were going to make this any less awkward. "I need you to get dressed and go out the back door. Ready two horses and wait for me. Do you understand?"

He continued to hold her mouth, afraid that she would scream the instant he moved his fingers. Slowly, her breathing steadied and the fear lessened in her eyes, though only slightly. She still trembled under his touch.

"Do you understand?" he repeated.

She nodded.

Turning, he left the room again without another word and made his way down the hallway, drawing his sword. Her room was at the far end, closest to the other stairs. Below, the patrons had begun to drunkenly sing The Bear and the Maiden Fair. It was fortunate. No one would hear what was about to happen.

Jaime kicked the door.

The thing opened maybe halfway before slamming into the body that stood behind it, knocking them down onto the floor. As he thought, it was the bald soldier who'd excused himself. It angered him, the thought that he'd just let the man go without considering even for a second that something might go wrong. He'd have attacked her and Jaime would have known no better until it was far too late.

Seeing who it was, the bald man stopped himself from fighting back. He stood, looking guilty like some little child who'd been caught stealing scraps from the kitchen rather than a man about to butcher an innocent woman.

"Ser Jaime, I-"

"You know, I spilled the guts of the last man who wanted to harm her," he said, entering the room. Jaime held the sword up, drawing a line across the man's stomach. "Actually, the very last one she killed herself. I wasn't fast enough, but this time…"

"It's just orders, Ser, I-"

"Orders," Jaime mumbled, seeing the state of the man's trousers. He gripped the hilt tighter. "Tell me, were you to violate her before or after you killed her, or did it not matter? I suppose it doesn't. A warm body is all the same to you, and she's a very pretty one."

"She's just a Stark."

"Yes, she is."

When Jaime swung his sword, there was enough power behind it to remove the man's head from his shoulders.

Downstairs, men cheered as they finished the song.

He grabbed the man's dagger from his belt and moved toward the stairs.

No one noticed him quite at first. They were all shouting in revelry, acting as if the war had already been won. Garrel was attempting to start a round of The Rains of Castamere. His tune changed quickly when Jaime shoved his sword through his back. The boy gurgled and collapsed to the floor as every eye in the building looked to him.

Jaime did not hesitate. He grabbed Jaron by the neck and slammed him face first into the table, before taking the dagger and stabbing it into one of his outstretched hands.

The man screamed, flailing as they all did when experiencing true pain for the first time.

All around him, men began to react. Some started to draw their own weapons while others began to back away, not in the mood to be drawn into another conflict. Still, some looked to be debating if they wanted to do anything at all.

"My name is Jaime Lannister, and if any of you bastards intervenes, then I'll see to it that every last one of you is hunted down," he growled, eying the crowd. "Go back to your drinks. I won't be long."

Jaime leaned over, mouth close to Jaron's ear.

"Who sent you?" he hissed. "Was it Stannis or some other cunt who's named himself king recently?"

"What are you-"

He twisted the knife.

The man screamed.

Behind them, someone began to retch.

"You're not the one asking questions here. Who sent you?"

"It was the queen, Ser Jaime. We were sent by the queen!"

Jaime removed the knife, only to stab him in a new place. He cried out again, panting as he watched the blood pool out from his hand.

"Stop lying to me!"

"I'm not, I swear!" Jaron screamed, his voice cracking. "Queen Cersei gave us all the order! We were to bring you back and only you! If we found Myra Stark, we were supposed to kill her!"

"My sister wouldn't order that. She can't afford to lose another Stark."

"I don't know why she did it!" he cried.

_It won't be enough_ , Cersei whispered to him, the last time he saw her.  _Find the girl and take her. Let the Starks know that no matter what they do, they cannot protect the ones they love._

Jaime stilled, remembering. Of course Cersei had given this order. She'd hated the girl from the moment Robert laid eyes on her, and even more so after he had saved her.

Cersei had always wanted her dead.

And he had not bothered to care.

"Please…I told you everything. Please, let me go," Jaron begged.

Jaime looked around at the men watching him, pulling the dagger out of Jaron's hand. The man sat in his chair, taking one solid breath of relief before Jaime slit his throat open. Men murmured, some whispering 'Kingslayer,' and a serving wench fainted, but still no one made a move against him. He wiped the dagger on Jaron's shirt and pulled his sword out of Garrel.

"Take their coin. Bury them in the back, toss them in the river, burn them. It doesn't matter. No one is going to come looking for them," Jaime murmured, tossing his own coin purse onto the table before walking toward the door. The crowd that stood in front of it parted silently, their mouths gaping like fools.

Myra was waiting for him outside. She had taken the plow horse for herself, and sat astride it now, having saddled a gray stallion for him. Her hair, still wet, was shining in the moonlight, and her breath came out in short puffs.

In her hand, she held the dagger he'd given her.

He mounted his horse, taking the reins when she offered them.

"Jaime?"

He didn't say anything.

"Jaime, what happened? What did those men do?" she pressed.

"We can't go back to King's Landing," he murmured.

Myra blinked, her mouth dropping open much like everyone else's.

"Why not?"

He did not speak for a while, and refused to meet her eyes when he finally did.

"Because I made a promise."


	26. The Changes

**Oberyn**

To underestimate one's opponent was perhaps one of the greatest sins a man could commit. Not only was it a grievous offense to the skill of one's adversary, it was also an affront to one's own. Such presumption of one's abilities begged for recompense, and there was not much Oberyn enjoyed more than watching his brother collect that particular payment.

Prince Doran Martell was not about to best a man in ritual combat, and somehow that led many lords and ladies to believe that they could match him in a duel with words. Oberyn was not sure why. Even before the gout had cost him the use of his legs, his brother had always been considered the intelligent one, but perhaps that was because he took his time to think things through rather than charge headfirst into dangerous situations. That was not the Dornish way. Really, not much of what Doran did was considered the Dornish way, but if Oberyn heard anyone utter those words aloud, they'd soon find his spear in their chest.

Ah, was that why he was not allowed to be armed in the Water Gardens? Funny he did not think of that sooner.

Smirking, Oberyn watched the back of the latest diplomat depart the room. He was from some minor lord to the west, negotiating about taxes like they all did this time of year. The fool thought to take Doran's silence as some form of weakness, and paid the price dearly.

While his brother was not as quick to anger as himself, Oberyn knew from experience that his ire was to be feared nonetheless. His brother had this strange ability to shake the very foundations of Sunspear with a look.

"Does this truly not bore you?" Doran asked, looking over his shoulder. Oberyn had taken up residence at a writing desk behind his brother, so that he would not disturb him while the negotiations took place, but was still within view of the visitors. He wanted to make sure they knew what the Red Viper thought of them as they spoke their colorful words; he liked to think his brother tolerated his presence because of his persuasive demeanor.

Oberyn took a sip of wine, carefully replacing the goblet on the desk well within his brother's line of sight. He always used to chastise him over placing drinks near his papers. Of course he'd been right to do so – the number of letters he had ruined over the years was innumerable – but even at his age, it was his duty as the younger brother to get under Doran's skin in whatever way he could.

"You ask me that every year."

"And I have yet to receive an answer."

He chuckled softly, standing. "Brother, I think the fact that I am here every year should more than suffice as an answer."

Doran shook his head, an image he was more than familiar with. "Sometimes I wonder about you."

Oberyn crossed the room, taking a seat in the couch nearest his brother. "Only sometimes? It seems I have begun to slip in my old age."

His brother snorted. "Try to remember you're my younger brother before you go making claims about your age."

The two shared a comfortable silence as they awaited the next diplomat. Oberyn glanced around the room, taking everything in. In his youth, he'd never paid it much attention. When their family had come to the Water Gardens, he had played with Elia in the lavish pools outside while their father educated Doran in the ways of ruling. There was still a chipped tile on the eastern wall from the one time he had been left to his own devices. That had been the first time he had picked up a spear. Not a week later, he was sent away to foster at House Qorgyle.

Even then, it had been clear to his father was sort of man his youngest was going to be.

Two servants entered the room shortly after, accompanied by Areo Hotah, whom Oberyn was certain had given the diplomat a warm Dornish farewell. The guard took up his position silently behind Doran, as one servant delivered his brother a missive, while the other replenished the fruit bowls on the tables between them.

Oberyn looked the man up and down, remembering his dusty hair and pale eyes. Yes, he had been Ellaria's suggestion, and she was rarely wrong in these matters. That had been a particularly fun evening.

He winked at the servant and received a meek smile in return. Oberyn watched him walk back out, wondering if he shouldn't change his plans for the afternoon.

When he was out of sight, Oberyn turned back to find his brother staring at him.

"Tell me," Doran started, opening his letter. "Just how well acquainted are you with the servants here?"

Oberyn smiled. "Don't ask questions you don't want to know the answers to, Brother."

The light-hearted air did not last as Doran began to read the contents of the letter sent to him. To the unfamiliar, hardly anything had changed in the lord's appearance, but Oberyn knew his brother. He saw the calm nature practically melt away, revealing the raging Dornishman beneath. His hands gripped the paper tightly and began to shake, and it was a wonder to him that the building did not do the very same.

Areo noticed the change as well, and eased closer to his brother.

"What is it?" Oberyn asked, sitting up in his seat.

The look on Doran's face had him wondering if he hadn't killed or slept with the wrong person lately.

"Your daughter has done something foolish."

Oberyn almost laughed. "You're going to have to be more specific."

"Syrena."

Ah, that one. Like his daughter Sarella, Syrena had not been content to remain within Dorne. While Sarella longed to learn about the world around her, Syrena wanted to serve. She listened to speak of treatises, trade routes, and other political machinations that would have put her sisters to sleep with a fervor matched only by her uncle. His brother claimed to love each of his nieces equally, but Oberyn knew that Syrena had been his favorite.

Until now, it seemed.

"That seems unlike her," Oberyn said cautiously, testing the waters. He did not want to become collateral damage to his brother's anger any time soon.

Rather than reply, Doran shoved the letter in his direction.

Oberyn gently took the paper, reading carefully. The words were in Valyrian, of course, and coded, but he knew how to decipher the script. It was the same he had used all those years ago when he had traveled to Essos on behalf of Doran.

Glancing at his brother, he waited for a single nod before walking toward the fireplace. The days were still warm, but night was beginning to sweep in faster than before, and had become harsher as of late, so the servants lit the fires early. Oberyn tossed the paper into the flames, wishing he could banish what they contained so easily.

Sansa Stark was coming to Dorne.

It was bad enough that they were to play host to the Princess Myrcella. Oberyn had argued with his brother long and hard on marrying a Lannister into the family, a Lannister through and through according to Stannis Baratheon's words. After all their work, it seemed a slap in the face, but Doran assured him it would fit well into their plans.

But a Stark certainly would not.

"I could intercept them," Oberyn murmured as he watched the letter curl in the fire. "Sail out tonight and send her back before anyone knows."

"Send her back to the Lannisters?" Doran asked. "I did not think you so cruel, little brother."

Oberyn felt his fists clench. He knew what his brother was doing, though he did not know why. Surely he must have agreed with him.

"Then I'll take her to Essos, put her up in a house somewhere. I still have friends in the East." He turned around, facing his brother, who suddenly looked far less angry than he should have. "If we bring her here, we are inviting war to Dorne."

Doran had the audacity to actually smirk. "The Red Viper not welcoming war? We live in strange times indeed."

Oberyn sighed, feeling like a mocked child. "Brother."

The Lord of Sunspear was quiet a moment, watching as the sun set behind the distant palm trees.

"It was Lord Tyrion who offered his niece's hand. If her party has encountered no obstacles, then I fear he already knows who travels with her," Doran mused, looking back to him. "It may already be too late to avoid this."

* * *

**Sansa**

Emptiness greeted her when she woke that morning. It stretched from horizon to horizon, much like the seascape that rested behind her. She had never thought a place could look so desolate, with miles of little more than rock and patches of desert grass. Some thought the North was an empty place, but at least it was green. Here, nothing appeared to be alive, save for a lone gull that cawed overhead before it dived into the sea.

Sansa thought she could make out structures in the distance, but the early morning haze obscured the view. The sun could not have been up for longer than an hour, but already the air was warm, the stiff breeze off the coast making it thick and difficult to breathe.

So this was the price of freedom.

They must have made port in the dead of night, but no one on the ship had dared to bother the princess. Now that she had risen to grab a bit of breakfast and clean water for Myrcella, several pairs of eyes landed on her, expectant. Ser Arys gave her an apologetic smile as she turned to go right back down the stairs.

Myrcella's cabin was the only one on the ship, but the princess had allowed her to stay through the journey. Although she had not cried when she left King's Landing, her days since had been filled with tears. Sleep had not come easy to her and Sansa had found herself sitting up late through the night, running her hands through her soft, blonde curls. No one deserved to be alone while they suffered.

She certainly hadn't.

Sansa sat on the edge of the bed, watching the princess briefly before gently shaking her shoulder. When her green eyes finally opened, they glanced around the cabin in confusion before remembering.

"We're here," Sansa said softly, smiling. She stood then, moving over to the large clothing trunk near her bed. "I was thinking you could wear the red dress we looked at yesterday. It compliments your skin tone."

_And your Lannister heritage._

When Myrcella did not respond, Sansa turned back to her. She sat on the bed, her knees tucked in and eyes full of fright.

"I don't want to go."

Sansa sighed, taking the dress in her arms before kneeling in front of the girl. "I know you're scared, but try to think of it as an adventure. New places, new sights. I hear we are going to the Water Gardens, and that it is one of the most beautiful places in Westeros."

She tried to sound enthusiastic, but the words felt hollow to her. Still, it seemed to breathe some life into Myrcella, who nodded and began to dress with her help.

For how well-thought Syrena's escape plan had been, the handmaiden had forgotten a thing or two, such as the fact that Sansa had no idea how to play the part of a handmaiden. She knew how to order them around and had a vague idea of what they did, but Sansa had never asked any further than that. She was the lady of a noble house, after all, the daughter of the Warden of the North, even being a lady-in-waiting seemed beneath her.

Fortunately, Myrcella had been a little too distraught to care for her discrepancies, and life on the ship was an adjustment for everyone, including Ser Arys, who had inelegantly lost the contents of his stomach over the railing on several occasions.

When they finally emerged, arm in arm, Ser Arys escorted them off the ship, a skip practically in his step, and onto the dock. A litter waited for Myrcella there, and two dozen guards had been sent to escort them, dressed in yellow cloths. Some wore light leather armor, but for the most part their clothing was lightweight, a relief in the harsh sunlight of Dorne. In comparison, Ser Arys in his full Kingsguard armor looked ready to pass out at any moment.

One man rode up to them, two rider-less horses beside him. His face and head were uncovered, unlike the other men, and he was dressed as someone of importance. His skin was tan, dark hair short, and his nose had a slight hook to it. He was handsome, Sansa decided, and he carried the air of a man who knew that.

He dismounted, allowing one of the guards to hold his horse steady, and held his arms open wide.

"Princess Myrcella! Welcome to Dorne!" he shouted, bowing with a grand, sweeping gesture. Myrcella giggled, and even Sansa had to smile at the antics. "I am Prince Oberyn Martell. My brother, Doran, regrets that he cannot meet you here, but disease has taken the use of his legs. However, he looks forward to speaking to you once we arrive at the Water Gardens, as does my nephew, Trystane. I certainly hope you like the game, Cyvasse. It is all he has been playing as of late."

"I've never heard of it," Myrcella replied quietly, though her eyes were lit with curiosity.

"No? Well, you will soon enough," Oberyn spoke, looking down on her with a smile. "Between you and I, I'm no good at the game. It requires smarts, and no one has ever accused me of having those."

Myrcella giggled again as she allowed Oberyn to help her into the litter.

"And welcome to you, Ser Arys," the prince continued, looking the man up and down. "Your reputation precedes you. I hope you find my home to your liking."

"It could do with a few more clouds," Arys commented with a smile, tugging lightly at his armor.

"Ah, but that is the beauty of Dorne. Boys arrive and men leave, although you might not make it that far in your armor. We can have you fitted with something more beneficial when we get to the Gardens." Oberyn turned his gaze to her, and Sansa thought his dark eyes were seeing into her soul. "And you, my lady…"

He whistled. Another guard ran up to him with some fabric in hand, the same yellow color that all the others wore. Without another word, Oberyn began to wrap the cloth around her head, circling it around with practiced ease, leaving excess to hang down in case she wished to cover her face against the wind.

"Skin as pale as your does not fair well in lands such as these," the prince whispered. "But you, too, will become stronger for it."

She hoped not all Dornish people were as cryptic as the two she knew.

Oberyn stepped back then, gesturing to the horses. "Shall we?"

Ser Arys helped her into the saddle before mounting his own horse. The caravan started off then, though at a slow pace. Aside from Oberyn, Ser Arys, and herself, no one else was on horseback. A dozen soldiers walked in front of the litter while a dozen took to the rear. Ser Arys rode beside the litter, engaging Myrcella in conversation through the curtain while Sansa lingered behind, watching.

She hadn't noticed Oberyn was still beside her until his hand took hold of her reins, bringing her horse to a stop. The soldiers continued walking, purposely ignorant.

"Wait a moment," he said, his voice deeper. Gone was the jubilant personality that greeted them, replaced by a more serious persona. It worried her.

"I should remain by the princess," Sansa said quickly, attempting to regain control of her horse. "Please remove your hand, my lord."

Oberyn looked down at her, the smile on his face wicked. "Handmaidens should know better than the question the orders of a prince. It is a wonder that you've made it this far, Sansa Stark."

Her heart dropped, but Sansa kept herself composed. She ceased fidgeting with the reins, waiting for the caravan to pass them by. When they were finally the last to leave, and some thirty feet behind, Oberyn let go and allowed them to move forward once more.

"I will tell you this now so that there is no mistaking it later: you are not a welcomed guest here, Sansa," Oberyn said, keeping his gaze resolutely forward. The structures in the distance were coming more into focus, with palm trees and buildings so strangely designed, she thought they might have been on another continent altogether. "I offered to take you elsewhere, to save our house from the damage your presence would cause."

Sansa gulped, feeling her courage fail. "I do not mean to put your family in any danger."

"And I'm certain your father did not mean to lose his head, but he is dead nonetheless," Oberyn replied, his dark eyes remorseless. "What people mean to happen and what actually happens are two distinct things, which is a fact both you and my daughter are ignorant to, it seems."

"Syrena is your daughter?" Sansa asked, though she felt a little silly doing so. After everything he had told her, that was all she could say?

"She is," was his curt reply.

They were quiet after that, continuing to follow the caravan. Sansa was actively fighting off the urge to just take the horse and ride far away, knowing full well that there was nowhere for her to run to. She had no water, no supplies, and no idea where she was. The Hound was right, it  _was_  a cage, but she hadn't expected it to be this much smaller.

"Where will you take me?" she asked quietly, unable to look up at him. Her life was very much in the hands of people she did not know, but how well had she known Syrena? It seemed that she just kept running from one unknown to another, thinking she was smart in doing so, but she was still a foolish girl.

Oberyn sighed, and she got the distinct feeling he was looking at her.

"You will remain here," he admitted reluctantly. "My brother has commanded it. It seems sending you away is more dangerous than not. You will remain in service to Princess Myrcella and keep up this little ruse my daughter has started. Whatever fate has in store for you, Sansa Stark, it appears to be the same for Dorne."

Sansa frowned at that.

Since when had fate ever been kind to her?

* * *

**Jaime**

_The last night his father was the Hand, he had been forced to guard the Mad King._

_He stood outside, vigilant, as any good member of the Kingsguard ought to be. Both Ser Gerold Hightower and Ser Barristan Selmy had offered to take up his guard, in order to allow him to be with his family before they returned to Casterly Rock, but King Aerys had insisted that it be him, and who were they to disobey the king?_

_More than once, he had considered walking away. No one ever came down these passages in the dead of night; no one wanted to hear the noises that filtered through the door as the king had his way with his wife, as he shouted of fire and other crazy ideas. It would be hours until his relief came. They would all be none the wiser._

_And yet he remained, staring resolutely at the wall across from him. Sometimes he saw his father, glaring at him, the perfect image of furious disappointment; sometimes he saw the White Bull, holding the cloak that had now chained him to the whims of a madman, and taken away everything he had ever wanted._

_Mostly he saw her._

_It had been years since they'd seen one another. She had developed from girl to woman, far more beautiful than his imagination could conjure, with her fair, golden hair and emerald eyes. He had thought she was a dream, but then she had touched him, hugged him, and welcomed him back, and Jaime knew then that he was lost to her._

_Fortunately, his desires had not been one-sided. What they had felt as children had blossomed into something more, culminating in a night of passion that had left him breathless. He would have given her everything to remain in her arms, and he had._

_Now this was the cost._

_Jaime blinked, wondering if he hadn't fallen asleep and his dreams taken shape because Cersei stood before him now, dressed in a servant's garb, her hair barely covered by a dark hood._

" _Cer-"_

_His sister rushed forward, placing a hand on his mouth, only to remove it instantly and replace it with her lips. She tasted of honey._

" _Father is being a fool," Cersei said when she broke away from him, though his hands remained firmly planted on her hips. "Giving up the most powerful position in the kingdom, and for what? A slight? No man would dare to call him on it, not even the king, not openly. He fears Father more than anything."_

" _Then don't go," Jaime whispered. "Stay with me, just as we planned."_

" _The plan was to have Father stay here as well," Cersei countered. "What use is King's Landing now? I'm not the princess; I'm not the daughter of the Hand. I'm nothing."_

" _You're everything."_

_Her smile made him feel like a simpleton, as if his grasp on the world were that of a child's. "What you think doesn't matter."_

_He grabbed her arm as she tried to leave, dragging her back. "You said we'd never be apart again."_

_Suddenly, Cersei was older, though no less beautiful. She looked as she did now, a woman grown, a mother, a queen, fierce and elegant. Now she held his arm tightly, angry._

" _You were never supposed to leave me again."_

* * *

He startled awake, hand instantly on his sword hilt, ready to attack anything that moved, but in the quiet of the night, there was only the soft crackle of a low fire, and her.

Gray eyes watched him, nearly black in this light. Her mouth popped open briefly, as if she were about to speak, but appeared to think better of it and shut again. Part of him wanted her to go ahead and talk, to just babble on about some mundane topic like most women at court were prone to, if only to distract him from the thoughts that had been assaulting his mind all throughout the day and night. But this was Myra Stark, not only was that not in her character, but she also had an irritating tendency at guessing what was going on in his mind, and had deemed it necessary to remain silent lest he lash out at her over it.

Jaime ran a hand over his face, attempting to rid his mind of the dream, but it did not matter. Even when he was awake, Cersei was there. She had been on the beach before them when they had ridden away, sat in the saddle of his horse when they had dismounted, even Myra's eyes had turned a vicious green whenever he looked back to her. His sister was always there, demanding penance.

_You were never supposed to leave me again._

They always left one another. It was their lot in life.

He'd had a choice, though, hadn't he? Cersei was within his grasp, as was Tyrion. He could have been on his way back to King's Landing at this very moment.

But the price was too high.

Jaime chanced a glance at Myra again. She was no longer watching him. Her attention was focused on their small fire as she poked it gently with a stick, watching the embers fall between the dried wood and kindling.

He once said he would burn everything that stood between him and Cersei. Now the only obstacle was a young woman and a few words he had spoken to her, and for that, his hand was stayed, for her he had turned his back on everything.

As with everything, it had come second nature. In his mind's eye, he had pictured her dead, pale and motionless in a pool of her own blood, and the knife in his chest had twisted so hard, he thought he might never breathe again. Only killing those men had eased the pain, only saving her had made everything feel right again. The relief he had felt when the party had told him they had been sent to find him had paled in comparison to what he felt upon seeing Myra still alive and breathing.

What sort of weak fool had he become? Was he to be a traitor to everyone he knew?

Jaime felt her gaze on him again. It seemed to come as naturally as fighting with a sword now, knowing when she was looking, and when she wanted to speak. He supposed he owed her something; he hadn't spoken for an entire day.

He sighed. "Ask."

One syllable. It was all he could manage.

Myra blinked and took a breath, looking between him and the fire more times than he could count.

"Why?"

This was going to be a terribly short discussion.

Jaime stood. Maybe he thought better on his feet; maybe he wanted an opportunity to run away like the foolish boy he was. He ran his hand over his face again, felt the stubble on his skin. His beard would be returning soon.

"I said you would be safe with me. I couldn't break that vow on same day. Even for an oathbreaker, it's a bit much."

He was hiding behind the words, and she knew it. She always knew.

Myra got to her feet as well, her new cloak falling to the ground. She approached him, proximity demanding an answer. "Jaime, why wasn't I safe?"

He hesitated.

"They had orders to kill you."

She grew still and her eyes widened. Jaime saw her hand lightly brush over the dagger.

"From her?" she asked, her voice trembling. The girl looked on the verge of tears, as if he had betrayed her instead of saving her life.

Jaime could only nod.

"I have done nothing to her. All I wanted was to be with my family and to serve my house, and for that, she wants me dead." Myra shook her head, looking at him in a way that reminded Jaime too much of her father. "How can you love someone like that?"

He wanted to get angry, to defend his sister and their love. Cersei was all he had known, all he had wanted, and the only woman he had ever been with. No other lord could claim that, not even the honorable Ned Stark, but Jaime said none of those things. Instead, he felt something he thought he never could when it came to loving Cersei.

Shame.

It almost made him sick; it was a greater betrayal than butchering those men at the inn. He'd never regretted loving Cersei, not when he had taken his vows or when she married Robert, not when they snuck to every abandoned corner they could find for only minutes together, not because of his relation to her.

But there it was, blossoming in his chest.

"I…"

What was he going to say?

He didn't know.

He didn't  _want_  to know.

"But…we aren't going to King's Landing," Myra murmured, piecing together what he had done. "You saved my life."

For some reason, this was what angered him, and his response had more bite.

"Despite evidence to the contrary, I don't want you dead, Stark."

"Even for her?"

So it seemed.

Myra shook her head again, disbelieving. "You pushed my brother out a window for her."

He'd done a lot worse for her.

"Your brother was just a nameless child to me," Jaime admitted, his voice a whisper as he looked down at her. "You aren't."

_I know you._

"Is that supposed to make it any better?"

Jaime almost laughed. "Since when has the truth made anything better?"

Myra was silent for a long time. He'd never seen such conflict before. She seemed torn between anger and gratitude, and something else. Perhaps she had her own shame to conceal. After all, what sort of woman takes to the Kingslayer, to a man who tried to kill her little brother?

Not that it mattered now, he supposed.

And therein laid another problem.

He shouldn't tell her. She had told him nothing of Tyrion in King's Landing. Her regret of the fact meant nothing. He owed her nothing.

And yet when she tried to move away from him, Jaime felt his hand reach out and grab her by the wrist.

"Wait," he mumbled, taking a breath before meeting her dark eyes. "There's something you need to know."

"What more could there possibly be?" Myra asked. She sounded angry, though she made no effort to fight his grip.

_Too much._

"Before everything, the soldiers told me what's been happening while we've been wandering aimlessly."

"Robb?" she breathed, her eyes suddenly frightful.

Jaime sighed. "He's not the one you need to worry over."

He watched her eyes flit back and forth, attempting to understand his cryptic answer. "What do you mean?"

"Your father's ward, the Greyjoy…"

"Theon? Has something happened to him?"

Jaime shook his head. "He betrayed your brother; he joined his father and captured Winterfell, and…he killed your brothers."

He spoke the last words so quietly, he wondered if she had even heard him, but the way Myra stilled confirmed that she had. Slowly, he released her wrist, watching, waiting.

Anger. That was the first emotion he saw. It pooled in her eyes like a great fire, burning bright and darkening her features all at once.

She gritted her teeth. "They're lying."

"They had no reason to lie, not to me."

Myra shook her head, tears lining her eyes as she stepped away from him. "I don't care what you think, they're wrong! Theon wouldn't do that! He grew up in Winterfell! Robb was his friend!"

"Your brother is the trueborn son of the man who took him from his real home, don't fool yourself," Jaime started, stepping toward her.

Myra slapped him.

"No! He was like a brother to him, to me! He helped Bran pick his first bow, and he took Rickon riding when the sun was out! Don't tell me that meant nothing to him! He is not you, Jaime Lannister!"

The words stung more than her open palm had.

"Myra-"

"No!" she shouted, hitting him in the chest, the tears freefalling now. "No, no, no!"

She hit him over and over, in the chest, in the arm, the shoulder, and he let her. He felt none of it. The whole of the war could have descended on him at that very moment, and he would not have noticed a thing.

"I don't believe you!" she shrieked. "I don't-!"

Suddenly, she collapsed into his chest, nearly knocking Jaime off his feet. She sobbed into his tunic, fisting the fabric as if it was the only thing keeping her upright.

For a moment, he couldn't move. He'd never been one for weeping maidens or crying babes. Cersei never wept, and Tyrion hadn't cried since he was a child. When Joffrey, Myrcella, or Tommen had cried, he'd never comforted them, never given them any words to ease the pain. The first time he had tried with Joffrey, Cersei had all but chased him away. That was when he knew it would be easier to do without.

But this was different.

The moment passed, and Jaime gave in, letting his body do what felt right. He wrapped one arm tightly around her as he kneeled down, sweeping up her legs with the other. She felt terribly light as he carried her back toward the fire, awkwardly stooping until he was seated on the ground with her nestled in his lap.

He felt his fingers rubbing circles into her back, something his mother had done for him once, while he tucked her head underneath his chin.

Something was shattering inside.

"If I can get you back to your brother, I will," he spoke, though he doubted she heard a word of it. "And if I can't, I'll take you to Casterly Rock. You'll never have to see King's Landing again."

No one had witnessed his vow. No crowds had cheered. No knight had put a cloak on his shoulders. He swore to no gods and to no king. And yet as he held the woman whose life he had destroyed, Jaime knew there was no oath greater than this. It had not been a mistake; it may have been one of the greatest things he had done.

His redemption.

"I made a promise to protect you," he whispered, watching the fire die. "Honor or not, that is one I intend to keep."

* * *

**Arya**

She never used to be patient.

Even before the king had come to Winterfell and ruined everything, Arya could not remember a time she had sat for the entirety of a proper meal, or made it through a lesson without her mind wandering to the windows or some pleasant corner of her mind. Everything had to happen right then and there. How could you enjoy something if it took all your life to get there?

But now, patience was her ally. She let the Lannister guards pass her by as she went about her tasks, keeping her head low and slowing her gait to a crawl if she had to; she took her time when she ate, savoring the small morsels she was given, uncertain if the food would be as good the following night, not that it was ever good, but at least the maggots were gone.

She kept herself from trying to murder Tywin Lannister.

Arya had thought of half a dozen ways to kill the Lord of Casterly Rock, but each was more rushed and foolish than the last. Her first thought had been to poison his drink, but she didn't know what to put in it or how much or even how to get it, and she would be the first suspect. She'd make it ten feet before the Mountain would gut her with his broadsword, if she were lucky.

Then she thought about stabbing him while he slept. She didn't need a sword, not even her Needle. A knife from dinner would work, and it would be easy to slip one up her sleeve. But she wasn't allowed in the tower that late at night, and the guards would catch her.

Also, she wasn't entirely sure Tywin actually slept.

Gendry thought he slept with his eyes open in order to trick his enemies. Hot Pie was convinced he fed off the happiness of everyone around him. She thought that idea was silly. There wasn't any happiness to be found before he arrived. If anything, moral had improved under his command of Harrenhal.

Except for his officers. They didn't get to slack off anymore, or torture their prisoners for their own sick desires. Their inadequacy unveiled, they spent their days squirming under their lord's hard stare.

And even Arya had to admit, it was one of the few forms of entertainment to be found in the gloomy castle.

"Can any of you tell me how long it has been since we received word from Dragonstone?" Tywin asked, giving every man seated at his war council an equally malicious glare.

Arya knew all their names. Gregor Clegane was the easy one. He stood beside the table because his knees would not fit beneath it. Even so, he seemed dwarfed by the demanding presence of Tywin Lannister.

Ser Kevan, Leo Lefford, Reginald Lannister, Amory Lorch, names and faces she had come to memorize and hate in her own way. She tallied each of their crimes and weighed them in her heart. Two of them were already on her list. She wondered if she would add any more today.

"Six weeks," Tywin continued. Arya did not meet his eyes as she filled his goblet with water. Servants did not look their lord in the eye; servants did not exist. "You've had six weeks to find my son, and what has each of you given me? Excuses."

Was he still talking about the Imp, she wondered? No, she remembered seeing a letter. Tyrion was in King's Landing. Ser Jaime then?

Arya shuffled away from the table, keeping her head down and her ears open.

"The Riverlands is a large tract of land to cover, my lord," she heard Leo start. "As are the Crownlands, either of which he could be in."

"I didn't come for lessons in geography. I came for results," Tywin retorted, silencing his officer. Arya stood at the preparation table, slowly gathering the meal together, watching from the corner of her eye. "Stannis Baratheon had Jaime on an  _island_  and still managed to lose him. If we're unable to recover him, we'll look like bigger fools than he already does."

She watched him turn to the Mountain. "Tell me, how many of your men are searching?"

"A full company, my lord."

"Send two more, one north and one south."

Ser Kevan looked concerned. "That will weaken this position considerably. Can we afford that?"

"This isn't just about Jaime," Tywin continued. "With Ned Stark dead and his youngest daughters scattered to the wind, Myra Stark's value has been raised considerably. Having her in our possession is paramount if we are to secure a victory against her brother."

Arya gasped, and dropped a fork to the ground.

Six sets of eyes turned to her.

Thinking fast, Arya grabbed the platter of food and began to serve the men at the table.

"Apologies, my lord. My fingers are clumsy."

She felt Tywin's gaze on her, burning her skin. It had always been obvious that he suspected something of her, and she wondered if she had not given it away.

"No excuses," Tywin spoke. Had she not known better, Arya could have sworn he sounded entertained. "A servant knows their place, what they are capable  _and_ incapable of, something the lot of you would do well to emulate."

Arya looked to the table as she felt her mouth twitch ever so slightly.

"How are we so sure the girl is still with Jaime?" Reginald asked, stuffing his mouth full of food as soon as Arya set it down before him.

"He'd be a fool not to keep her," Tywin remarked, his frown turning into a scowl. He stood abruptly then, forcing the rest to follow. Reginald had a piece of ham hanging from the side of his mouth. "Take the food back, girl. They haven't earned their keep."

"Yes, my lord," Arya replied quickly, gathering the food she had just set down. Perhaps she could sneak some down to Gendry later.

"Whoever finds them will get a hostage for their effort," Tywin stated, turning away from the table and striding to the door, Ser Kevan on his heels. "For your sakes, it better not be Robb Stark!"

* * *

Myra was alive!

Arya practically skipped down the steps, taking them two or three at a time. In her jubilee, she nearly ran into several soldiers, each either swearing or shoving her to the side, but none of it mattered to her. This was the first she'd heard of any of her siblings outside of Robb since she'd left King's Landing.

It didn't even occur to her that the last time they had seen one another, her older sister was supposed to be heading home, not mixed up with the likes of the Kingslayer. She was alive and that was all that mattered.

But she was in danger.

No, Robb would find her. He'd never let Tywin Lannister get his hands on her, not if he could help it, and he was the King in the North now. He had the means.

"What's got you so merry?" Gendry asked as she ran into the smithy. He placed a newly minted sword on the rack, wiping the sweat from his brow with a dirty rag.

Arya grinned, placing a biscuit in his hand. "Doesn't matter."

The smith shook his head. "Yeah, well, try not to let anyone see you. It's probably punishable by death around here."

Ignoring him, Arya hopped on the crumbling stone mound she usually used for a seat whenever she visited. She started to nibble on the remainder of the ham from dinner, relishing the juiciness of the meat. Had anything ever tasted better?

Letting her eyes wander around the castle grounds, Arya spotted a man tied to a lone post near the gate. His feet were bare and his head hung limply between his legs, long and muddied hair blocking his face. Only the shaking of his shoulders told her that he was still alive.

"Who's that?" she asked, taking another bite.

Gendry glanced over, averting his eyes as soon as he realized whom she was talking about. "They brought him in after noon, been beating him off and on ever since. Don't know why. They don't even ask him any questions."

Arya tilted her head to the side. Even the Tickler had asked questions of those he tortured, as useless as they were. She wondered what sort of man could earn less than that.

"Don't," Gendry warned, pointing at her. "I know that look. Last man stepped within ten feet of him was beaten into the mud right beside him."

It was sound advice, of course, but when had she ever listened to him?

Arya grabbed some pieces of wood, attempting to look occupied, as she moved closer to the man. Anything Gendry might have said to bring her back was cut short lest he expose her while trying to save her.

Moving slowly, using every corner she came across, Arya tried to look as small and unassuming as possible. Most soldiers weren't looking for trouble. They let a good deal slide if it meant they could continue relaxing or keep their conversations flowing. All she had to do was not attract their attention.

When she drew within a few feet of the man, the squelching of her boots caught his attention.

"Back already?" he spat, turning the mud bloody beneath him. "You're awfully bored."

When he looked up, his eyes widened, or rather, his eye. The left was beaten and bloody beyond recognition, leaking something foul. He'd have no sight with it again.

And yet, despite the missing eye, and the cuts and bruises marring his face, despite the length of his hair and the thickness of his wild beard, there was something unmistakable about him.

"Jory?"


	27. The Honor

**Robb**

"Two months!"

He slammed his fist on the war table, making certain his knuckles scraped firmly against Lannister's last known position. "You're telling me my sister has been free of Dragonstone for nearly two months, and we are only just hearing of it?"

Beneath the table, though only just barely given his size, Robb could hear Grey Wind growling softly. The direwolf had always reflected his emotions in some way or another. It had been quite the tactic to use against their enemies, though as of late that only seemed to be an additional burden on his men. Without the release that came with battle, without the taste of victory on their tongues, frustration was at an all time high, not least upon himself. Unfortunately, the poor scout, who was only out to deliever a message from another man, who know doubt heard it from another himself, was receiving the brunt of it at this very moment.

"We do not command an army of whisperers as the Spider does, Your Grace," Lord Roose Bolton interjected with that ever even tone of his, saving the scout from having to explain that which he did not know the answer to. "No matter our military might, Lord Tywin will always be one step ahead in that regard."

Some would call it bold to claim fault in the army before the King in the North. Robb called it smart. Sure, Northern Lords had all the tact of an aurochs and were not afraid to voice their dissenting opinions, but as Robb continued to prove himself, as men across the countryside started whispering The Young Wolf, the words became less and less. They believed him, and by extension themselves, unable to do wrong, and for a time that had been enough to slog their armies across the Westerlands chasing the illusive Lion, but now even that was wearing off.

"So, it is entirely possible that he already has them," Robb murmured, not oblivious to the venom in his voice.

"It is, Your Grace," Roose said from across the table. He always had an eerily calm demeanor about him, even in the face of battle. The man never smiled, but he never appeared to get angry either, and that might have been the more terrifying of the two. "However, I doubt even Tywin Lannister would want to keep quiet about acquiring your sister, given the circumstances."

_Given the deaths of my brothers, you mean._

Robb let his fist clench and unclench, let the anger that temporarily gripped his heart fade again before he spoke. With Bran and Rickon…gone, with Sansa and Arya missing, Myra was it. She was the heir to his throne, wherever that might have been at this point; it certainly wasn't Winterfell. Until he had a child of his own, all he had was his sister, and Roose was right, Tywin would take full advantage of that.

He still had Jon, however, but words from the king of a united realm could hardly sway the Watch, much less from a boy who controlled two of them. All he could do was ask his lords not to execute Jon upon his arrival, but he would always be seen as the traitor, the runaway, the coward. More names for the bastard of Winterfell.

Sighing, Robb looked up at the scout. "Send for my mother."

Catelyn entered not long after, followed by her looming guardian, Brienne of Tarth.

On more than one occasion, it had been brought up that he dismiss the woman, though some suggested further action, in regards to her abandonment of the Baratheon camp and involvement in the death of her king. But Robb knew his mother was no liar, and that she would never accept a kingslayer's oath of service. And, in part, he was relieved to have someone looking after his mother. A woman she may have been, but Robb had seen Brienne best every man that dare to challenge her when the camp was quiet and the men were training. His mother could not ask for better.

Roose bowed out, having sense enough to realize that this was a private matter. With a nod, Brienne stepped back outside the tent as well, though he knew the woman stood just outside. She'd probably hear every word they spoke. He doubted this would be a quiet conversation.

Robb stretched his arms out, leaning on the war table. It was the only thing keeping him standing at the moment.

"Mother," he started slowly, staring resolutely at Winterfell on the map rather than at the woman who bore him. "Before I tell you anything, I want you to know that nothing is certain, and that this news comes to us late…very late."

He finally chanced a glance at her. Gods, if his mother hadn't aged before, she looked like a ghost now, withered and worn and tired beyond that which sleep could fix. Her hair was limp and her eyes had lost their glow, her skin was pale and the lines in her face had deepened. A small breeze could blow her away.

And why wouldn't she look this way? First her husband, and now, for all she knew, out of her six children, he was the only one left. Even with the message he'd received, he still might be.

Robb took a deep breath. "There was word from Dragonstone. Several weeks ago, Myra escaped."

He'd seen her brace herself, waiting for the worst news no doubt. That was all their family ever received. But then it all melted away, overwhelmed by a look of sheer relief. His mother grasped at a chair and fell into it, her shoulders shaking.

"I knew the gods would have to listen one day," she said, voice cracking with emotion. "I knew..."

He heard Grey Wind whine.

Being the dutiful son he was, Robb went to his mother's side. He put a hand on her shoulder as she wept, allowing her a moment before he continued; he wasn't sure how else to comfort her. Myra would know what to do. She always did. But she was not here, leaving him to stumble in the dark.

When they'd heard of Winterfell, he should have gone to his mother, and he had, eventually, but not before seeking solace in the arms of Talisa, not before casting aside his oath because he'd needed to be weak. He needed someone to understand that for one day, he couldn't be a king or a son; he needed to just be a boy who was broken in ways he could not imagine.

They would know soon, he realized, but for now, he liked to pretend that everything was still the way it should be.

Some days he wondered if Myra would have stopped him.

"How did she escape?" his mother asked eventually.

Robb felt his hand twitch. "I don't know the specifics. What I do know is that she escaped with the Kingslayer."

"Jaime Lannister?" Catelyn asked, turning up to him. "The last I saw him, he was leaving the Vale with his brother. I'd assumed they were returning to King's Landing."

"Jory made no mention of him either, but whatever the case, it seems that Stannis Baratheon had several prisoners of interest," Robb continued, taking a breath. "And now we've no idea where they are."

And there it was: that look of expectation. His mother was waiting for her son to tell her that everything would be alright, that his sister was going to be okay because he was going to move the heavens and the earth in order to find her, a lost young woman in the middle of a war that had nothing but.

Gods help him.

"Mother..."

"Don't," Catelyn snapped, her eyes wide. "I know what you want to say, but you can't."

"It's not a matter of wanting, Mother," Robb admitted, sinking into the chair across from her. "I don't have the resources to send a search party for her. I don't even know what direction she headed."

"She is your sister!" Catelyn hissed, standing. "And you would just leave her out there! Even worse, you'd leave her with Jaime Lannister! If he takes her to his family, we'll never see her again!"

"Do you think I'm not aware of that?" Robb asked, looking up. "Do you think I don't want to march out there myself and look for her? But things are different now. My army is stretched thin across the Westerlands. Our camps are undermanned, we are short on supplies, and winter is coming. I can't go to my men and ask them to give up more so that I can look for my sister, who might not even be alive."

Catelyn looked indignant. "Do you hear yourself? I thought I taught you better than this, that your father-"

"Father taught me how to be the Lord of Winterfell, not the King in the North in a time of war," Robb interrupted, tired of being berated. He already hated himself over it. "I told you about Myra because I wanted you to hear something good for once in this forsaken war. I could have chosen not to tell you; I can't afford to look for her, and I need you to understand me on that matter."

She was silent for a while, searching his eyes. Was she looking for a weakness?

"One way or another, her brother is going to get her back. Those were your words for her."

His mother dared to use those words against him, words he had spoken when he had been defeating the Lannister army at every turn, when the thought of the Greyjoy fleet at his side was not a distant, hopeless dream. This was not the same army. He was not the same man. She could not expect him to live up to that promise now.

He was spared replying when Brienne reentered the tent.

"Your Grace, my lady," the woman spoke, inclining her head. "Forgive the interruption, but I could not help but notice your...predicament."

He supposed that was one word for it.

"I would like to volunteer to search for the Lady Myra, with your permission."

Robb felt his mouth drop open in a very un-kingly manner.

Catelyn shook her head. "Brienne, I could not ask you to do such a thing."

"Then I suppose it is a good thing that you did not ask, my lady," Brienne replied with a small smile.

"Lady Brienne, if this is about silencing any rumors about you in the camp..." Robb started.

"Men speak what they will, Your Grace. I know better than most," Brienne said. "But this is not about me. As I am sworn in service to your mother, I feel it is my obligation to search for her daughter in your stead. I've heard a great deal about your sister. She seems like the rare sort, and it would be shameful to leave her in the company of the Kingslayer."

Robb wondered if this wasn't the most honorable way to shame him.

"Very well. If my mother permits it, then you have my leave." Robb stood, walking toward the opening. "However, I would ask that you do not go alone."

"That is not necessary, Your Grace. I travel faster on my own."

"Nevertheless, I insist," Robb replied, opening the tent flap. "Send for Olyvar."

The guard nodded. "At once, Your Grace."

"I'll send my squire with you, since I cannot go. My sister should know that I am thinking of her, at least."

"I do not doubt that she believes it, Your Grace."

He met Brienne's eyes, if only because he could not face his mother.

"We march for Harrenhal soon. Meet us there, if you can."

* * *

**Myra**

_The sky was a pale blue without a cloud to be found. With the sun unimpeded, Winterfell grew warmer than most of its occupants were used to. Children fled the confines of the castle without cloaks, and with sleeves rolled at the elbows if the fabric allowed it. Maester Luwin, realizing his tutoring would be for naught on such a wonderful afternoon, dismissed his pupils early, to cries of triumph and relief._

_Myra sat upon Tempest, her eyes closed as she hummed against the warmth of the sun. She'd been inside too much as of late. It was good to be out again._

_Her eyes opened as she heard riders approach. Bran, his grin wide, rode up to her on his own horse, while Jon and Robb trailed behind him._

_"Robb said I'm big enough for Caern!" Bran shouted happily, scratching the dapple gray between the ears._

_"Did he now?" Myra asked, leveling a cool look on her twin. "Does Father know?"_

_"Course he does," Robb replied, he and Jon sprouting matching impish grins. "And he agrees."_

_"And Mother?"_

_Silence._

_Now it was Myra's turn to smile. "Oh, dinner is going to be wonderful tonight."_

_Jon began to laugh as Robb's smile faded._

_"You're always out to ruin things, aren't you?"_

_"You smile too much to be a Stark, Brother. I'm only helping correct that."_

_Theon approached on his filly as the dark-haired siblings took turns laughing at their red-haired brother. Rickon sat in front of him, gripping the reins tightly, even though the Greyjoy had control._

_"The little lord asked for me personally," her father's ward spoke, pulling up next to her. "Seems he doesn't have time for you anymore."_

_Myra rolled her eyes. "He's just weighing you down for me, Theon. Not that I need help running circles around you."_

_The boys chuckled as everyone took time lining up their horses. They'd spend their day at a creek not far from home, relaxing in the shade of the trees as the sun continued to warm the air. The boys would fight with sticks until one, or more than likely all, ended up in the water, gasping and shrieking about how cold it was. She'd be better off leaving at that point, because Robb was not about to leave her out of that fun._

_But first, they had to get there._

_"Edge of the forest?" Jon asked._

_"Like always," Robb replied, nodding. "This is Bran's first proper race now, so take it easy."_

_"I can handle it," Bran countered._

_Theon nodded. "Good. Diving right in."_

_"Alright, on the end of the count," Myra said, pulling back on Tempest's reins. The mare could sense the looming race. "Three...two..."_

_"ONE!" shouted a blur as it rushed past the group. The young lords and lady looked up to see another horse flying down the hillside, recognizing the rider as none other than Arya._

_"That's not fair!" Bran shouted as the elders simply laughed. "She can't do that!"_

_Robb patted his brother on the shoulder. "Well, you best catch her then, and teach her a lesson."_

_Bran never did catch Arya before she reached the forest, but by the time the others caught up, the two had already tumbled into the creek, a flurry of fists and mud._

* * *

Why?

It was the only word her mind could conjure, after hours (days?) of darkness and silence, of an emptiness she'd thought she had begun to grasp only to find that the abyss was unending.

Why?

There were no excuses, no explanations, no reasoning short of utter madness that could allow her to even begin to wrap her head around the concept of what Theon had done. It was the sort of tale that maesters told their charges while shaking their heads in shame, because even the wisest of men could not justify such senseless slaughter.

Was Maester Luwin there still? Had he seen it? Or had Theon murdered him as well?

Oh gods, had her mother returned home, or was she safe with Robb? Safe in a war while her home burned.

Why?

Myra blinked, eyes focusing on the smoldering ashes of a dead fire. Was this the same fire from her memory so long ago, or had they moved since then? Her memory consisted of little after he'd told her the news.

Something was draped across her. She pulled it tighter across her form, blocking the cold air of the early morning. It was a cloak, and not hers, she realized. Jaime's then.

She sat up slowly, wrapping the fabric around her, looking around the fire for a familiar, blonde head, but the man was nowhere to be found; she wondered how safe they must have been if he'd decided to leave her alone. Perhaps he was just tired of her presence. There was only so much to be done with a wordless young woman.

A moment passed, then another, and suddenly Myra realized she was moving away from the camp. Perhaps her feet knew something that she didn't.

They'd travelled some distance from the Trident, it seemed. Normally the great river was within their line of sight, even when they camped for the evening, but something must have changed as of late. Perhaps they were closer to the war, and the river was no longer the best course of action.

Myra found Jaime not twenty feet away, at the foot of a rock slope that gave way to a small creek. He'd waded halfway into the water, his boots and shirt discarded on a nearby rock, and was washing up in the freezing current, or so his mumbling told her. He was completely oblivious to her presence.

Had he lied, she would have believed him. Had he looked her straight in the eye and said everything was okay, even though she could see right through the words, she would have believed him, because she was sick of the truth. The truth had taken everyone and everything from her. At least with lies, she could pretend her life was whole, even as the weight of it crushed her into the dirt.

Jaime had finally noticed her presence, standing up in the water and smirking at her with that familiar cockiness.

"See something you like?"

He'd said that to her once, a lifetime ago back in Winterfell. She had been caught staring then as well. Why she had been looking at him that way was a mystery to her now, something unimportant lost to time.

But she'd called him handsome. Even now, after the toil and hunger had begun to take its toll on his body, as his beard grew back out and his hair hung limply against his face, it was not a misplaced description of the man. She would have turned a nasty shade of red and run away with her head between her hands on any other day.

Not today, though.

In fact, she didn't even acknowledge that he spoke, staring past him until Jaime got the hint. He sighed, running a hand over his face.

"Go back to the camp, Myra," he mumbled. "I'll be along shortly."

She neither replied nor moved, and Jaime did not seem to care enough to attempt to change that, going back to washing himself like he had never seen her at all.

Myra blinked.

"I understand why you did it."

Jaime stopped and looked back up at her. Was it the fact that she spoke that made him look so surprised, or was it because her voice sounded so little like herself?

"Why you pushed my brother out of the tower."

How easy it was to say now, as if Theon's act of treachery had utterly erased Jaime's. What did it matter if this man before her had  _almost_  killed Bran when Theon actually did? He did not know her brother, while Theon had watched him grow, and thus his act was the more heinous of the two.

Or that was what she told herself.

Her thoughts must have drifted for longer than she realized, because when Myra took a breath to speak again, Jaime had climbed out of the water and donned his tunic. He suddenly no longer seemed annoyed by her strange behavior, but curious, concerned even.

"If I had known…" she took another breath, feeling the sudden anger wash over her. It made her fists ball together to tightly, her nails began to dig into the skin. "If I had known what Theon was capable of, what he was going to do, then I would have killed him where he stood."

She watched those green eyes looking at her, and could have sworn they looked disappointed.

"No."

How could that one word feel like a punch to her gut?

"No?"

Jaime took his time walking up to her, as if mulling over what to say. Even when he stopped by her side, he was silent, eyes cast downward. She watched the water drip from his hair, forming dark pools on the fabric of his shirt.

"That isn't you, Myra. I think you would have reasoned with him, begged him, given your life if need be, but couldn't kill like that."

"I've killed," Myra replied through gritted teeth, as if offended by the notion that she was incapable of being as cold-hearted as everyone else she had come across in her life.

"You've defended yourself. That's hardly the same," Jaime countered. "To look a person in the eyes, to hold their life in your hands and to choose not to spare them, that is something else entirely."

He finally looked up, and Myra was surprised by how vulnerable he seemed.

Was he speaking of Bran? It wasn't a split second decision. He'd held her brother in his hands, and he'd had the choice, but he chose death. He chose Cersei.

Funny how those two things always went together.

Myra shook her head, hating how reasonable Jaime sounded. "Maybe I should be like that. Where has kindness ever gotten me, but right here?"

"No," he said again, and somehow it hurt more than the first time. "There are enough Theon Grejoys in the world. But you? The Seven Kingdoms could use more of you, Myra Stark."

He walked away then, and she let him, briefly stunned into silence.

How was it after everything that had happened, Jaime Lannister managed to make her feel in the wrong?

* * *

**Jaime**

They had found an abandoned house some time before the sun set that evening. Whether it was good, bad, or just some form of dumb luck that brought them to it had yet to be determined, but given neither he nor Myra had yet to let go of their daggers, it was obvious which side they were betting on.

There was some old, broken furniture and half-rotted firewood outside the door, but otherwise the place looked hardly lived in. A thick layer of dust covered every surface, and no clothing or remnants of food could be found. Nothing smelled foul; nothing moved. There was just...emptiness.

He wasn't a man made uneasy quickly, but if he were honest, Jaime would have preferred to have found evidence of a struggle inside. The thought of this place lying abandoned just for them to find weighed heavy on him, but like that cave, it was too good an opportunity to pass up.

Myra had huddled in the corner beside the fireplace, her blade well within view as she watched the doorway unblinking, waiting for someone to emerge through the threshold. Anyone who tried her this night would find themselves regretting that action quickly.

Himself included, he noted.

Jaime had taken to watching the fire that roared in the hearth, half-listening to the distant cries of a mad man.

How strange that Aerys had become the least of his concerns. He'd rather hear his raving over the sound of Myra's cries or the gasp of a little boy falling to his doom, a boy whose eyes looked just like his older sister's.

He ran a hand over his face.

Seven hells, she had certainly put him in a mood.

"Are you thinking about him?"

Jaime looked to his right. Myra was watching him, her face half-shadowed in the firelight. He remembered when she used to flinch when she asked questions.

She sat up a little further, clinging to the cloak she had yet to give back. "You always get this look on your face whenever you look at the fire."

"And what look is that?" he asked, snapping when he didn't mean to.

"Like you did in the throne room when you told me about my grandfather and uncle," she continued, unaffected. "It's like...you're back there."

Gods, he was starting to wonder how he and Cersei managed to get away with so much if he was this easy to read. Then again, Robert never had been the most observant of individuals, at least when it didn't involve tits or wine. Noting the Kingslayer's emotions? Others take him, why would he do that?

Jaime looked back to the fire, listening to it crackle, ignoring the eyes boring into him.

"Burn them all," he whispered, feeling a sudden weight shift off his shoulders. "Those were his last words. He shouted them over and over, even as I drove my sword into his back. Even when I sliced his throat, I could see his lips forming those damned words."

For half a moment, he'd thought the blood on his sword would start to burn, melt the steel of his blade, do something otherworldly, but there was nothing. Aerys Targaryen's blood was as red and uninteresting as all those who came before him, and all who would come after. Before the startling realization of what he had done fully set in, Jaime had almost felt disappointed.

The dam broken, he let the rest of the words tumble out. It was a story long untold, a secret in desperate need to be shared.

"You're well read, so I assume you know what wildfire is, what it does," Jaime continued, watching the flames in the hearth turn a sickly shade of green. "Imagine barrels of it, stretching so far in either direction that you can't make out where it ends. Aerys had the alchemists working day and night making it, placing them in caches throughout the city. He'd always been the paranoid sort, but this was…something else entirely."

Aerys had toured the hoards once, in the dead of night so no one would see. The liquid had a pungent smell that Jaime could not forget if he tried. Thick, nauseating stuff that nearly made him retch. It must have smelled like sweet nectar to Aerys. He'd have probably drank some if it weren't for the memory of Aerion Brightflame's end.

If only he had done it nonetheless, spared them all what was to come.

"When my father sacked King's Landing, the Mad King had one order for me: 'Bring me Tywin's head. Prove you aren't a traitor.' He actually planned to burn the city to the ground, soldiers and babes alike in the greatest fire the world had ever seen. But he wouldn't die with them, no. Dragons do not burn. He would rise again, king of ash and bone."

He hadn't been at Aerys' side at the time. As the only member of the Kingsguard left in the city, he'd been put in charge of defending the Red Keep. But when he heard those orders, he'd ran. Fear conjured images of green flames leaping up across the walls as if he were already too late. A piece of furniture had fallen over and he'd thought the end had come.

People said Kingslayer and pictured a man with a cruel smile staring down at the crime he had committed as if he took pleasure in the act. The Jaime Lannister who'd murdered his king was little more than a boy whose knees were shaking so badly that he could hardly stand, covered in a layer of sweat and breathing hard from the most desperate run of his life.

"The last Hand of the King, Rossart, head of the alchemists, practically jumped with joy at the thought of using his wildfire, so I slew him first. Aerys turned to run, and I killed him next. I think you and the rest of the realm knows what happened after that."

He could still feel the sensation of the blades rubbing against his armor as he sat on the Iron Throne, the scratching that sounded more like shrieking, or were those the screams from the city below?

He could still see the look on Ned Stark's face as he found him there, waiting, accepting of what was to come. He'd almost felt giddy and had to clamp down on his tongue to keep from laughing, and suddenly Aerys' descent into madness did not seem so strange.

The way the Warden of the North looked at him, as if he was an affront to nature itself, made his blood boil. He dare sit there and judge him as if he and Robert hadn't traveled across the countryside to do the very same to their king. They swore vows too, but they conveniently forgot those truths.

"I spent the next couple days hunting down the other alchemists, making certain that Aerys' final command never came to be. They begged, offered money, but in the end, they fell silent like all the others."

He'd returned to overhear Ned Stark asking Robert to send him to the Wall at least. The blood of their would-be killers still covered parts of his blade, and this was his repayment. If that was how they felt, he preferred the executioner's block.  _That_ was mercy.

Myra was right: he was back there, and he stayed there until he saw her small form crawl from its hiding spot. She sat on her knees in front of him, so that they were eye to eye, and the flames were out of his line of sight completely. In the sudden darkness, it was hard to make out the girl's features, but he thought her face was wet.

"You did the right thing, Jaime. You were right to kill him."

He wasn't certain if it was the words she spoke or the conviction in which she spoke them that rendered him speechless.

The story of why he killed Aerys was one he never spoke, either because no one cared to hear it or because he didn't feel like explaining himself. If no one could understand why a man would turn their back on such a monster, why should he bother? Their minds would never change.

But Myra Stark had always been different, hadn't she?

"Your father didn't think so," Jaime whispered, his voice hoarse for a reason unknown to him.

Myra sat back, turning slightly to the fire so he could make out her face properly again. She wasn't angry at his words, only thoughtful, biting at her lip like she always did.

"My father was a good man. Honorable, honest to a fault, and one of the best men I have ever known," she spoke slowly, a wistful smile on her face even as she turned back to him. "But he was wrong."

She had spoken similar words to him the night he had saved her from Robert's wrath. Even though they had stunned him then, he had always thought of them as the words of a rescued maiden, blinded by her gratitude. Myra would never feel the same way if she knew what he did.

But now she knew everything, Aerys, Cersei, her brother, all of it, and still she spoke the words.

"I'm sorry," he said, suddenly overwhelmed by a wave of guilt that made him nauseous.

"I know," Myra replied, nodding. She took his left hand in both of hers, examining the remnants of his injury as she looked to be fighting back tears again. "I…you were right, I shouldn't be like that, be like  _him_. I can't be."

He watched her take a shaky breath, felt her warm hands clutch his a little tighter, trying to convey what she felt because the words were giving her difficulty.

"I don't know if I can forgive you, Jaime. I don't know if something like that can or should be forgiven, but…I can't hold it against you anymore." Myra's voice was quiet as she said the words, her gaze still on his hand. She was tracing the forming scar with her fingers. Something tightened in his chest. "This is healing well."

She tried to pull away then, freeing herself from whatever direction the conversation had taken, but Jaime wrapped his fingers around one of her hands and held her in place.

"Tell me about him."

Myra finally met his gaze, eyes darting ever so slightly as she searched his for an explanation. And then she relaxed, her shoulders sagging as her hand squeezed his back.

"I told you once, he always wanted to be a knight. He'd just started practicing with a bow. The poor thing wasn't very good with it just yet and…"

She spoke for hours it seemed; she never tired of saying the words, and he never chafed under the length at which she told the tales, both of Bran and Rickon. In fact, it was only after the fire had dwindled to nothing that Jaime even noticed she had stopped.

Myra had fallen asleep, curled up against his shoulder, and was snoring softly. Her face was relaxed, not strained with worry or anguish as it had been as of late. He almost wanted to say she looked comfortable in his grasp, her hand still tightly bound in his.

They'd moved at some point, allowing Jaime to lean against the wall so that he would not disturb her slumber. And as sleep slowly claimed him, he felt, for once, a sort of peace fall upon him.

And there, in the middle of a war, in an abandoned cabin with a girl he ought to call his enemy, Jaime Lannister found the most peaceful slumber he'd had in years.


	28. The She-Wolf

**Jaime**

When he woke that morning, he was alone. As it turned out, Myra was just outside the cabin, tending to the horses, but Jaime could not deny the hint of disappointment that nestled in the bottom of his stomach.

She had greeted him with a smile and a small jest about him sleeping the morning away, but they had not spoken since, choosing to ride in silence.

To be honest, he wasn't certain what to say. He half thought he'd dreamed the previous night, but every time he caught Myra's eye, there was a look in those dark irises that had definitely not been there the day before, or any other day. He couldn't place it, and honestly had been debating it for much of the afternoon. Jaime knew anger, hatred, disgust, all the terrible things people felt toward him, which was certainly  _not_ what she was looking at him with.

Gods, he was fretting over it like some damned little boy. It was pathetic.

But he also couldn't help himself. He'd told the story once, and to only one person. Tyrion had found him the night of Robert and Cersei's wedding, when he'd finally been allowed to drink himself into a stupor. The things he had done mixed with his sister's refusal to see him for a fortnight leading up to the ceremony had left him in a terrible state, and the alcohol had only served to aggravate it. Tyrion got the tale he had more or less given Myra, though a little more slurred and a little less kind. When his brother offered to tell their father the next day, it had resulted in one of those rare moments when he actually got angry with him.

They hadn't spoken of it since.

The point was, Jaime did not know where to go from here. Was Myra going to keep silent about it or ask him more? He wasn't sure he could handle more.

He wasn't sure of a lot of things these days.

As his mind continued to wander in circles over the woman beside him, Myra began to fidget in her saddle. He noticed her glancing his way now and again, debating, but didn't have the willpower to meet her gaze, until she cleared her throat.

"Tell me about Casterly Rock."

The look he gave her must have been a ridiculous one, because she bit her lip to keep herself from smiling.

"Why?" he asked.

"It seems to me that there is a very distinct possibility that I may end up there," she replied, looking back to her hands. "And I thought that…oh, I don't know. I just don't want silence anymore. It makes me think too much."

He supposed it could have been worse. She could have brought Aerys back up, but he should have known better by now. Myra knew when to avoid things.

Jaime sat back in the saddle, grateful for the distraction. "Not sure I'd know where to start."

Gods, he couldn't even remember the last time he had been home. It couldn't have been before Robert's Rebellion, could it? No, there had been the Lannisport tourney after they had defeated the Greyjoys. He'd almost won the whole thing, but Robert had given the prize to some man just knighted. Ser Jorah was it?

That meant the last time he had stepped in Casterly Rock, Myra Stark had been, what, five years old? Six?

Seven hells, he hoped that groan was inward.

Myra wasn't laughing, so he was either blessed or her acting had improved immeasurably.

"Is it really as large as they say?" she asked, shaking her head as soon as she spoke the words. "That's a…silly question. My sister used to go on and on about how big it was and I never could believe it. It didn't seem right, a structure being that large, but then we came to King's Landing and…well, I started questioning everything."

Even a fool could tell her words had another meaning, but Jaime was tired of sore subjects.

"The Red Keep was a step down from home," he murmured, conjuring an image of the Rock in his mind's eye. It was no less grand than the stories told about it. Some things were just meant to surpass expectation. "It's carved into rock that's taller than the Wall, and can be seen from miles away. I used to think that if I stood on the tallest tower, I might be able to see what's on the other side of the Sunset Sea."

He chuckled then. "But it never was big enough to outrun my father when I wasn't at my studies."

Myra was smiling beside him, though he could see the twinge of sadness in her eyes. There wasn't going to be much to distract her from her brothers, but she was trying. He supposed she had no choice in the matter.

"You loved Casterly Rock."

It was a statement, not a question, and he supposed not an altogether false one. He had enjoyed his home. There were memories there that he would not trade for the world, but there were also other ones: distant echoes of his mother's singing, a warm smile and a gentle hand to calm his fears, ripped away by bloody screams.

Lady Joanna's death had changed Casterly Rock. It would never be how Myra saw Winterfell for him, not anymore. Still, he had loved it, and maybe still did in his own way, if only for the sake of his mother.

"Jaime, why did you join the Kingsguard?"

She'd asked something similar to that once – and her tone said as much – back when Robert was still blustering about and everyone was none the wiser to what was happening in King's Landing. He had answered in the only way he knew how: coarsely, with the hope that the conversation would end there. Jaime almost wished he could conjure that ability now.

"I think you know the answer to that," he said glumly.

Myra shook her head. "Your sister is the queen. She has King's Landing, and children, and power. What did she leave you with, Jaime?"

Cersei gave him everything he'd needed: her, his other half, the only one he could be whole with. He didn't need Casterly Rock or children he could call his own; he didn't need the legacy that his father strove for every day of his life. Never mind that they did not have many moments together, they still had them, and without the Kingsguard, none of that would have been possible.

_Liar._

The voice was back, only it wasn't Tyrion's, or even Myra's.

It was his.

Jaime nudged his stallion forward. He didn't care that he was running away from the conversation; he just wanted it to be over.

* * *

Myra caught up to him some time later, when he'd stopped at a small tributary of the Trident. It could not have been more than a foot deep, but the way the landscape had been carved out suggested it flooded often.

She appeared to be struggling to find the words to speak, picking at the mane of her horse, but Jaime let her fidget. He didn't relish the thought of returning to that particular subject.

"I shouldn't have said those things back there. It wasn't my place to ask, and I'm sorry," Myra admitted, though she didn't seem too pleased with the effort. "But, I worry that-"

"Do you think we've been here before?" Jaime asked, cutting her off. He didn't want to hear about how she worried; he didn't want to hear anymore of her thoughts on the matter.

Now he was just being a child.

Myra, however, was all too eager to latch on to a different subject as well, glancing about the forest with newfound curiosity. It didn't matter much. The trees looked the same as they had for days. Once they had made it far enough inland, the forests had grown dense, and had yet to let up. They wouldn't start to thin again until they approached the borders of the Westerlands, and at this point he was starting to believe they'd make it there.

"I don't think so," Myra replied, but he could hear the doubt in her voice. Without the Trident as an exact guide, it was hard to stay on a straight path, but this far into the Riverlands, it was dangerous to stay near the open water.

Jaime snorted. "At this rate, the war is going to be over, and we'll still be wandering the forest."

Myra hummed, clearly entertained by the idea.

Well, at least  _her_  mood was improving.

They sat there in silence, allowing their horses time to cool down and drink from the small creek. Myra took the time to fix her hair. He watched her small fingers deftly braid the dark locks, completely unaware of the small twig stuck between the strands. Or perhaps she didn't care.

Unwittingly, his hand reached out and plucked it from her hair. Myra didn't jump at the action, but she did turn to him, a curious eyebrow raised.

Jaime Lannister wasn't one to become embarrassed, but he certainly felt caught under her scrutiny, and struggled to find some explanation. There was none to be found, of course.

Suddenly, she grinned, looking positively mischievous.

"Does this mean you've forgiven me?"

And then she laughed, full and hearty, closed eyes, shaking shoulders, and all. As her voice echoed through the trees, Jaime saw the youthfulness return to her features, and the weight of everything that had happened over the past few days falling away. She seemed so unlike herself in that moment, and yet he felt as though that was how she ought to look. The glum Northern attitude did not fit her, not when she could look as she did now.

Forgetting that he was supposed to be the offended party, Jaime smiled, even chuckled to himself as he watched Myra's hopeless attempts at getting the giggles under control.

She clapped her hands over her mouth, dark eyes shining over her fingers as she watched him.

Jaime fell forward then, the wind knocked from him as though someone had slapped him across the back, hard. He started to recover, leaning on his horse and looking over to Myra in confusion, finding that she had grown silent and still. Her eyes widened in fear, and all the color drained from her face.

He looked down.

An arrowhead stuck out of his chest, somewhere just beneath his left shoulder. His fingers grazed the barbed metal, feeling the warm blood,  _his_  blood, as it oozed along the surface.

And then he fell.

* * *

**Sansa**

Despite the arid environment that surrounded them, the Water Gardens, as it turned out, properly lived up to their names. It was hardly as green as any of the lands to the north, and the plants were like nothing she had ever seen, consisting of many strange, prickly things that seemed to match the inhabitants well, but it was a beautiful escape from the sands of Dorne nonetheless.

However, a reprieve from the climate it was not.

Sansa had thought King's Landing was warm, and had smiled to herself when she adjusted to it swiftly, but in Dorne, the sun was downright vile. In Winterfell, she had celebrated the appearance of that bright orb in the sky, and here she would do the same for a cloud, which she had not seen since setting foot in this place.

Both she and Myrcella had to commission new dresses with even lighter fabric to keep them from overheating. They'd also both turned terrible shades of red at some point, and confined themselves inside the cooler buildings until their skin had returned to normal, or closer to. Sansa had always been pale, but she noticed her exposed skin darkening ever so slightly. The thought of it had revolted her at first, but then she remembered where she was and why. There were more important things to concern herself with.

Such as maintaining her cover.

Oberyn had taken her to see Doran late in the evening when Myrcella was already asleep, and the prince had more or less given her the same statement that his brother had: she was not welcome, but they would not send her away.

Sansa, for her part, had taken that information in stride, and did her best at keeping up appearances. She befriended a few maids, had them show her around the area, and worked to memorize the winding walkways when she was not busy. She learned how the Dornish preferred to style their hair, investigated which cook was more agreeable to her requests – late night treats did wonders to help Myrcella cope with being so far from home – and above all else, avoided anyone from House Martell.

Still, she thought she could feel eyes on her at every moment. Sometimes, it made it hard to sleep.

Midday was the most unbearable, so Sansa and Myrcella had taken to strolling through the gardens in the early morning, when the barest amount of dew still rested on the various ferns that lay scattered along their route, and the air was not quite so thick. It had become a daily routine of theirs, as had avoiding Ser Arys, much to the Kingsguard's chagrin. Myrcella had taken to spending the evenings with Trystane, and she would recount every moment of it in detail with her in the morning.

"Cyvasse is such a wonderful game!" Myrcella exclaimed, sounding far livelier than she ever did in King's Landing. Perhaps she had not been the only caged girl. "I used to think that Trystane was only allowing me to win, but last night, he grew so frustrated, I thought steam was going to rise from his ears!"

Sansa smiled softly. "It seems you've quite the talent for it, my lady."

Large, green orbs stared up at her. "Alayne, are you  _sure_  you don't want to try?"

"No, Princess, just as I told you yesterday, and will likely tell you tomorrow."

"I could make it an order, you know."

She felt her mouth twitch. "That would not be very kind."

Mycella was quiet a moment. "No, it wouldn't."

The two continued their stroll, coming across an open practice arena. It was occupied most mornings by the guards running their drills, and for the most part, the two girls ignored the contained chaos, but on this particular day, a different sort of battle was taking place.

It was not hard to spot Oberyn Martell. He was the only man currently fighting, locked in a duel with three younger women. Dark-haired and feisty like him, Sansa could only assume that they were his daughters, three of his Sand Snakes, as they were called. She'd never heard of them until she had arrived in King's Landing, Maester Luwin having chosen to gloss over those particular branches when it came to lessons about the great houses. Ladies and lords alike enjoyed to gossip about fierce young women who acted as men and preferred weapons to them as well. It seemed that, for once, the gossip had not proven inaccurate.

Despite their famed ferocity, however, it was clear that they were no match for their father.

Oberyn skirted past them with a speed she'd not seen in men half his age, dodging spear jabs and blocking blunted blades with his own. While the girls shouted and huffed, brows furrowed in both fury and concentration, Oberyn did not even appear winded, mouth wide in a gleeful smirk. He was enjoying himself.

"If you want to defeat me, work together!" he shouted, grabbing the spear of one of the girls. With ease, he yanked it from her grip and sent her tumbling into the thin layer of sand that covered the training yard. "You are sisters, not rivals! Why must you upstage one another?"

Another ran forward with a shout, her sword poised for the kill, but Oberyn sidestepped her easily, tripping up her unprotected feet with her sister's spear.

The last girl held back, twirling two smaller blades in her hands. Oberyn tested her guard, jabbing left and right and left again, keeping her on her toes. Unlike her sisters, the youngest did not give in, choosing to wait. When her father was a little too slow, she dived in, bringing a blade up to his neck before he could block her.

She smiled. "I win."

Oberyn waited a beat before head-butting the girl and knocking her into the dirt. He kneeled beside her, grabbing one of the blades she had dropped and bringing it to her neck.

From across the courtyard, Sansa noted an older Dornish woman was fidgeting, worry clearly etched on her features, even from so far away.

"You have not won until there is blood or I have said so," Oberyn stated flatly, letting up the blade. "You are overconfident, Tyene."

The flat of a sword came to rest on Oberyn's neck.

"Or perhaps you are, Father."

Oberyn chuckled, though there was no mirth in it. "So, this is what you call victory? Sacrificing your sister in order to defeat an opponent. That is a greater defeat than him having killed you, Obara."

The girl named Obara frowned while her sister Tyene stood. Behind their father, the third girl snickered.

Oberyn pointed the blade in her direction. "Do not think you are blameless in this, Nymeria. You are the fastest of your sisters, and yet you took your time to recover from my attack. You and your sister both could have blindsided me well before Tyene took the fall."

Nymeria's face fell. "Yes, Father."

Sighing, Oberyn looked to the rapidly rising sun. "That is enough for today. If we allow the sun to get the better of us, our heads will never cool."

"That is assuming they were ever that way to begin with."

The woman who had been spectating emerged from the shade of the palms, wrapping her arms around Oberyn. The way she was dressed was terribly provocative, even for Dorne's standards; the dress was dark, but cut terribly low, both in the front and back, but she did not seem to care about it.

_Paramour._

Yes, that was the word Sansa had heard the servants whisper about. Ellaria Sand, Oberyn's long-time lover and mother to four of his daughters.

She watched Oberyn chuckle, whisper something, and then return her embrace, passionately kissing the woman as his daughters walked away.

Sansa turned her head, feeling like an intruder.

Myrcella, however, seemed enthralled. "They're like lovers of legend. Mother and Father were never like that. I don't think I've ever seen anyone like that."

She had.

Unwittingly, her mind touched on a far off keep, nestled in the cold winds and bleak landscapes of the North.

"My uncle is quite the fighter, isn't he?"

Turning, Sansa ducked her head politely as Trystane appeared behind them. Myrcella, meanwhile, was all smiles and giggles, already smitten with her betrothed.

"He is," she agreed quickly, nodding a little too enthusiastically. "Do you know how to fight like that?"

The boy shook his head. "One day, but Father says I must focus on my studies first. He told me 'a man who has no time for books will be at war all his life.'"

Sansa could not help but smile. "Your father is a wise man, Prince Trystane."

"He certainly is," he replied, with that forced tone that only came from a young child bristling under their father's rule. He sounded like Arya when she had no choice but to be polite, although he did a far better job.

Chatting animatedly, the young prince and princess took off arm in arm. Sansa made to follow, keeping just far enough back so that their words were unintelligible lest her eyes roll into her skull and remain there, when her path was blocked by three figures.

Covered in dust, sweat, and blood, the Sand Snakes were quite the sight to behold, and to smell. Robb and Jon after a hard practice might have been flowers next to them.

Sansa thought to be intimidated, but she was taller than all three girls, and it was hard to appear frightful when she had to look down upon them. Besides, she'd beaten the Hound over the head with a vase, and he was far more terrifying than they could ever hope to be.

"You are not welcome here," Obara started, her frown so deep Sansa thought it might always be that way.

They knew then. She wondered if secrets were just as hard to keep in Dorne as they were King's Landing, or if keeping secrets from particular people was more worrisome than not.

"So I've gathered," Sansa replied, not bothering with her cover. They clearly did not care for it, and posed a much bigger risk than she did.

Tyene stepped forward. "You should leave."

Sansa raised an eyebrow. "And if I don't?"

Nymeria gripped her sword. "Then we will make you."

There was a moment of silence as Sansa stared the girls down. They were all older than her, all capable of cutting her down in a moment's notice, and yet still she did not fear them. If anything, they annoyed her, and she wanted nothing more than to be done with them.

"No, I don't think you will," she said, standing straighter as a surge of confidence overtook her. "If you'd wanted to, you'd have done so already. I've certainly been here long enough. You wouldn't bother with words, that's not your way, and I can see why, you're absolutely terrible with them. No, you've been ordered by Prince Doran himself to leave me alone. You can't touch me, and you can't scare me away."

When Obara began to lower her spear, Sansa thought she might have made a mistake, but Oberyn appeared behind his daughter, placing a calming hand on her shoulder.

"Cooler heads," he whispered, though it sounded more a threat than anything the Sand Snakes had said. The girls lowered their heads in respect, moving away from Sansa, though not without icy glares thrown over their shoulders. Ellaria left with them as well, her gaze not nearly as harsh, merely studious, which unnerved her more.

"You should not rile them," Oberyn spoke, not unkindly. She could feel the heat emanating from his leather armor, even from a few feet away; she wondered if it would burn her skin. "Well, more so than they already are. They may have orders, but Dornish anger is a powerful force."

This only seemed to anger her further. "So I should just take their words? Keep playing the meek little handmaiden and hope they're merciful?"

Oberyn shrugged. "If you want to survive, then this is what must be done."

"I don't want to survive."

She had not wanted to speak the words aloud, but her mouth had rebelled against her.

Sansa watched as Oberyn's eyes widened, before melting into a different look altogether. He did not appear to be angry or even frustrated by her little outburst. If anything, he was starting to look at her with interest.

"Tell me why," he said, crossing his arms.

Frankly, she wasn't sure how. It wasn't even something she was aware of until that very moment, but there was something about being confronted by the people she had been entrusted to that made a piece of her snap.

And yet something about him compelled her to speak.

"Animals survive," she said slowly, eyes locked on his dark gaze. "They move around here and there, unaware of anything except making it to the next day, and that is all I've done since the Lannisters killed my father."

Whether it was the back alleys of King's Landing or the beautiful gardens of Dorne, she was still hiding, a pathetic little creature dependent on everyone around her. She was tired of being at their mercy; she wanted what they had.

"I don't want to survive; I want to live, and I want them to know it."

She wanted them to pay for it.

Oberyn stared at her for far longer than she was comfortable with, but she did not look away. Something told her this was a test, and it was not one that she wanted to fail.

"I know this path you speak of," he murmured after a time, his dark eyes somehow blacker. "Vengeance is not so easy a thing to turn from. You should reconsider it."

Vengeance. Why did such a cruel word suddenly sound so sweet?

"What if I don't want to?"

Oberyn smirked, his mirth returning. He dusted off his hands and picked his spear back up, ready to depart the area.

"It is early yet, Sansa Stark. Escape the sun, let the shade cool your head, and the night ease your mind. I've seen you wandering these halls. Something tells me you'll know where to find me if your thoughts do not stray."

And find him, she did.

* * *

**Myra**

Her hand reached out to grab Jaime as he fell, fingers clumsily grasping at his cloak, but he was a large man, and she was not strong enough to keep him upright. Stunned from the impact of the arrow, he lamely fell off his horse and into the creek.

For a moment, she couldn't move. All she could do was stare at her hand as she held it out to the empty space he once occupied.

Then another arrow struck her horse in the flank. Panicked and in pain, the creature reared, tossing Myra into the water with a shout.

Pain blossomed in her back as she struck the ground, but she frantically rolled over to protect her head from getting kicked as the horses fled the area, their screams echoing. It fell disturbingly silent when they finally disappeared.

Gasping, she looked in the direction that Jaime had fallen. He had recovered his senses, and was attempting to roll onto his hands and knees, the shaft of the arrow waving wildly in the air, broken in half from the fall.

"Jaime!" she cried, ignoring the pain as she ran to his side. Nearly crashing into him, Myra tried to put his good arm over her shoulder, as if she were strong enough to actually help. Jaime gritted his teeth in pain, but his right hand clutched hers tightly as he leaned into her and got to his feet.

"Stay low," his hoarse voice ordered.

They ran to the other side of the creek, stooped over as another arrow struck the water beside them. When they'd reached a large tree, he pulled them behind it, shouting in pain as his back impacted with the trunk and jostled the arrow more. He grabbed her shoulders and threw her against the tree, pinning her between it and him as his eyes frantically searched the tree line.

Myra found her hand pressed against his wound, her skin turning red from the blood,  _his_ blood. She pathetically pushed harder on it, attempting to stop to the bleeding, to do something other than watch and wait in fear.

"This is why I hate archers," Jaime hissed, grabbing her hand. "Listen closely, we need to find better cover. Go from tree to tree separately, it makes for smaller targets…"

He continued to speak, but Myra did not hear the words that fell from his mouth. Her focus was solely on what she saw over his shoulder.

"Jaime," she breathed, not knowing if it was fear or despair that clutched her heart now.

Five men had emerged from trees, standing behind him some twenty feet. They wore leather armor, and were armed with long swords, axes, and cruel smiles. Further away, she could make out a few more figures, bowmen perhaps, like the one on the other side of the creek. The way they looked, the way they stood, all ease and confidence, suggested this was not some accidental meeting.

They'd been hunted.

Unsheathing his sword, Jaime turned side face and held it toward them, but the Lion of Lannister was not so intimidating with an arrow in his back and his left arm hanging limply by his side.

A few of the men chuckled.

"What do you want?" Jaime demanded, readjusting his grip.

One of them stepped forward, a burly man with a large, black beard and beady, little eyes. His sword was still in its scabbard, hands resting on his weapons belt, completely at ease, as if he were only out to enjoy the summer day.

He shrugged. "Nothing."

A moment passed, but it stretched on forever. Myra knew what she was facing, defilement and death, and there was nothing they could do about it. She and Jaime had had their fair share of luck, but this was different.

This was the end.

How she wished they'd never left that cabin.

The man moved his hand to the dagger on his belt, and Jaime lunged, swinging in a wide arc that would have caught him in the chest had he not moved. But the man was fast, and the tip of Jaime's blade didn't even cut through the leather.

When Jaime attempted to swing again, another arrow launched from the trees, lodging in his right thigh and sending him to the ground in agony.

"No!" Myra screamed, the words ripping their way out of her throat. She pushed off the trunk and ran to him, but what could she do? Defend him? Save him? Myra was incapable of any of these things.

But she wasn't going to leave him alone.

However, as she reached his side, just barely able to feel the wet fabric of his cloak, a large hand grasped her hair and pulled her backwards. Myra screamed and kicked, both attempting to flee and to keep her hair from being ripped from her scalp. Her hands grasped for the braid, only to be grabbed by the man as he pulled her up to her feet, wrapping a large arm around her waist and holding her there like some sort of child.

Green eyes met hers, and suddenly she was in the cave again, afraid, powerless, at the mercy of men who did naught but cause wanton destruction wherever they went.

_How dare they._

Jaime shouted, gritting his teeth and standing again. He held his sword up in challenge to the men who faced him.

"Any man can kill another from a distance," he hissed, venom in every syllable. "Which of you has the balls to actually face me?"

The bearded man stepped forward, unsheathing his sword. Jaime held his ground this time, his right leg extended behind him so as to not put so much weight on it, but Myra could see how it shook, ready to give in to the slightest pressure.

So, of course, that was where the man went first.

Jaime parried his first strike, but had no way to counter the leg that swept under him. He took a boot to his thigh, collapsing immediately from the pain alone.

Flipping onto his back, Jaime was just able to block the blade that came down, but without the use of his left arm, it was difficult for him to hold the man off. The bearded man only smiled, because he was barely trying, and enjoying the effort that his opponent had to put into it.

Jaime kicked up with his good leg, landing a solid hit on the man's groin. He shouted in pain, but did not step away, instead knocking the sword from Jaime's grasp and punching him in the jaw.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

The men around them only laughed.

"Stop it!" Myra shouted, flailing in the arms of her captor, but to no avail. "Don't you know who he is?"

He stopped, if only to humor her. The bearded man stepped away from Jaime briefly, affording her an image of the Lannister's bloodied face. He was still conscious, hand feebly searching for the sword knocked out of his reach.

_How dare they._

"This is Jaime Lannister!" she continued. "Son of Tywin Lannister. Spare his life, bring him to his father, and he will pay you your weight in gold."

The man chuckled, walking around Jaime. He kicked the sword further away before resting his boot lightly on Jaime's neck.

"Wonder what his head'll bring us?" the man pondered, before looking up at her. "We know who he is. Why do you think we're here?"

He pressed down.

Myra heard the scream, like an animal's, but did not realize it came from her. She managed to reach behind her back, where she had stored the dagger Jaime gave her, and pulled it out, stabbing downward with all the force she could muster.

Blade met flesh, the muscle of the man's leg giving in far easier than the chest of the one who came before. She pulled it back out, thinking to use it again when his grasp on her disappeared. Myra made it two steps forward before he grabbed her by the shoulder, turned her around, and backhanded her across the face.

She crumpled to the ground, body limp. The world grew quiet, shouts muffled as blurred figures ran to one another. Her hand softly gripped the earth beneath her, the blood of her attacker rubbing off her skin on to the dried leaves of the forest floor; her mouth tasted of the stuff, and she could feel it trailing down her forehead, getting into her eyes and hair.

Vaguely, Myra was aware of a pressure beneath her stomach. She'd landed on her knife, protecting it from being taken from her.

Jaime was looking at her, his green eyes bright against the blood that covered his face. She wanted to reach out or say something, but her mouth could not form the words.

A hand gripped the collar of her cloak and tunic, slowly lifting her. Her hand grasped at the dagger, ready. If this was the moment she died, at least she could say that she did not go quietly, whatever comfort there was in that.

Was this the foolish courage her father spoke of so often to her brother?

There was another shout, and suddenly she dropped back to the ground.

Myra rolled over and found Jaime on top of the man who'd grabbed her, a blonde one with the barest hint of a beard. He'd somehow found the strength, and was using the rest of it to beat the life out of her would-be attacker. Fives hits were managed before his companions responded, kicking Jaime back onto the ground.

_How dare they._

Jaime managed to get to his knees with a groan. The bearded man returned and picked him up by the cloak.

Strength suddenly returning, Myra leapt up, slashing the man's arm with her dagger. He yelped, letting go, and Jaime dropped into her arms. She fell to her knees, left arm wrapping around him as she held out the dagger toward their attackers with her right. He felt so light to her then, as if she could pick him up in that moment and run away from this dreadful place, but that would not happen here. They were only delaying the inevitable.

The men looked down at them, their twisted sense of humor vanished, replaced by anger and annoyance. Myra readjusted her grip on the dagger, waiting.

A scream pierced the forest.

It came from the other side of the creek. Several sets of eyes turned that way, watching, but no movement came from the trees, and the sound had cut off almost as suddenly as it started.

The bearded man stepped toward the creek, sword at the ready. "Tanner!"

No one answered.

"I thought they were alone," he said, looking back at the others.

"They are," answered another.

Someone screamed from behind.

One of the archers had disappeared. The others were quickly fleeing toward the group, shouting.

Momentarily forgotten, Myra watched as their attackers stepped away from them, unsheathing weapons and readying arrows. This was a chance they should not have gotten, but she wasn't sure Jaime could even stand anymore.

As if reading her thoughts, Jaime reached up and grabbed her wrist, pulling the dagger down.

"Run."

Myra only tightened her grip around his chest, feeling the blood seep into her clothing.

"I'm not going anywhere, Jaime," she whispered, resting her head against his. "I'm not leaving you."

She watched the men form a loose circle, facing both the creek and the direction the archer had disappeared. Swords and axes were raised, arrows nocked and drawn, and the forest fell silent, save for their heavy breathing.

Something growled.

A streak of gray charged from the trees, crashing into the group. The man closest to was taken, his neck enveloped by powerful jaws. In one leap, the creature had cleared the group and twisted around to face them, biting down on its victim with a sickening crunch that ended his screaming. Only then did it drop his body.

The creature was larger,  _far_ larger, than she remembered, but she knew that coloring, that fierceness that had so accurately reflected the young woman who'd owned her.

"Nymeria?" Myra breathed, her eyes wide. The direwolf did not react to her. Hackles raised and bloody teeth bared, she wasn't about to let any of the men before her out of her sight.

From where the second archer had disappeared, another form emerged from the forest. Smaller, though no less enormous, and lighter in color, Lady looked less intimidating than her sister, but deadly nonetheless. She ran into the group swiftly, grabbing an archer's bow and breaking it between her jaws before darting back out of reach.

That was what broke them. Gripped by fear, the men scattered and fled, shoving one another out of the way, hoping their companion would die before them.

Myra watched them flee, wondering why Lady and Nymeria did not pursue. The former clearly wished to, pawing the ground where she stood, but something was holding her back.

Then the third direwolf emerged from the creek bed, turning toward her.

"Brenna," Myra whispered in awe.

Larger than both her sisters, Brenna was clearly the one in charge. Her gray hair was darker than Lady and Nymeria's, but in the light, Myra could still make out the silver that had fascinated her when the creature was still a pup.

She did not growl and her ears were perked up in what appeared to be curiosity, but her mouth was red. The blood of the first victim.

Brenna approached slowly, until she was just within reach.

"What…is that?" she heard Jaime ask, his hand reaching to clutch the arm that held him tightly against her.

Dropping her dagger, Myra stretched out until her hand brushed against the direwolf's coat. It was no longer the soft fur of a pup, but coarse, rough stuff, meant for the wild, meant for fighting. Her fingers grasped the fur, feeling a calm wash over her.

"A friend," she replied.

The bright blue eyes of her direwolf had not changed. They were watching her, full of an intelligence she did not think possible. She stared deep into those pools, feeling something eerily familiar in them, a link, an understanding…

A dream.

And then she knew what they were waiting on.

Myra looked down to the man in her arms. Jaime had lost focus as he began to drift toward unconsciousness. Words formed on his lips, but made no sound. Blood oozed from his chest, from his leg, from various cuts on his face, while his skin had grown pale.

She gripped him even tighter, hand fisting his shirt as if the world meant to physically pull him away.

They had tried to take him from her.

_How dare they._

Myra met Brenna's eyes once more, focused and more certain than ever.

"Kill them all."

The forest filled with the screams of dying men.


	29. The Desperation

**Myra**

_Winterfell had been quiet for hours, but admittedly, Myra was just settling in to sleep. A new candle and a good book had proven difficult to escape from that evening, until it occurred to her that she had read the same sentence several times, neither comprehending the words nor the fact that she had indeed reread them. She'd curled up in bed after, the leather-bound script on the pillow beside her, and was just falling into oblivion when her ears caught the slightest creaking sound._

_There had been a time when she would have jumped at such noises, but the various visits of younger siblings over the years had dulled the fear that came from strange bumps in the night. Instead, she shifted and let out a contented sigh, waiting for the inevitable dip in the bed._

_It was only when nothing happened that she began to worry._

_Now, Myra loved her half-brother, but the sight of Jon's brooding face staring down at her while lit by a solitary candle might have been the most terrifying thing she'd encountered in years._

_When she opened her mouth to protest his, frankly, vile way of waking her, Jon slid forward and covered it with his hand, muffling her words and doing dreadful things to her attitude._

" _Myra," he whispered, not bothered in the least by the profane language his large hand was blocking. "We need your help."_

_She calmed enough for him to remove his hand._

" _We?"_

_Jon stepped aside, revealing Robb sitting at her writing desk. Though a small, completely guilty smile adorned his features, it was strained, and for good reason. His right hand was clutching his left arm, blood spilling out between his fingers._

" _Others take you, Brother," Myra hissed, clambering out of bed and to her twin's side. "What did you do?"_

" _Just a little late night practice is all," Robb replied, attempting to sound jovial and failing miserably._

" _Without supervision or blunted blades?"_

_Jon crossed the room, glancing down the hall before closing the door. "Didn't think we needed any."_

" _Clearly," she murmured, swatting Robb's hand away from his arm. Her fingers pulled delicately at the blood-soaked cloth that clung to his skin, revealing a cut that, while clean, went terribly deep. Though the sight of such things had never overly troubled her, she still felt herself blanche, a frown gracing her features._

" _We need to take this to Maester Luwin."_

_Robb shook his head, taking his arm back. "We can't."_

" _What do you mean 'you can't'?" Myra asked, looking at her brother as if he had grown another head. Funny, it looked a lot like Jon. "This isn't something you can bind up and forget about, Brother. There is real damage here, the kind that can kill a man if he's stupid enough to not get it treated properly, which apparently you are."_

" _But Maester Luwin has been teaching you," Jon interjected, though he sounded thoroughly unsure of himself._

" _Odds and ends, things a proper lady ought to know, not this," Myra replied, voice raised, as she gestured to Robb's limp arm. Her brothers jumped slightly at the sound. "I hem dresses, not flesh, Jon."_

_Robb leaned in, his voice low. "If Maester Luwin treats me, he's obligated to tell Father and Mother."_

_Myra met her brother's blue eyes and knew. Of course they came to her. They were desperate. If their mother found out that Jon had done that sort of damage to Robb, to Ned Stark's trueborn son, there would be a grave price to pay. It was hard enough trying to convince Jon not to take off in the dead of night and run to the Wall. If this got out, Lady Stark would all but drive him to it._

_So, it was up to her to fix their mistakes._

_Again._

_Some days she wished she'd been an only child._

" _By the old gods and the new, Robb, if you let this get infected, I'm letting your arm fall off." Myra held her hand against the wound, motioning the other at Jon. "Grab me something from my dresser. Anything."_

_Her poor brother made no such movement, having gone suddenly still. She couldn't recall him having ever looked so uncomfortable, to include the half dozen times she had seen her mother berating him over the years for minor infractions. Those he had taken in stride, but the idea of rifling through her garments? Perish the thought._

" _For gods' sake, Jon, don't look if you don't want to," Myra said, sighing in frustration. "Close your eyes and toss the damned thing at me."_

_Jon scowled, but complied, tossing the first thing his hand grabbed at her. Though he kept his eyes fully open, his gaze had landed on everything but the garment._

_Taking a moment, because a woman rudely woken felt no pity, Myra shook the cloth in his direction. "It's one of your old shirts, you ninny."_

_Robb's chuckle at their brother's discomfort quickly turned into a hiss as Myra poked at the wound again._

" _Take your shirt off," she commanded, standing. While her twin struggled out of his tunic, Myra picked through her sewing things. Calm she may have appeared, but her hands fumbled with the jumble of thread and needles in her basket. Which would work best, she wondered? Which would break? Which would fray? Which would be the easiest to cut out?_

_There were so many questions, and she did not have the answers._

_A hand covered hers, squeezing gently._

" _You don't have to do this," Jon whispered._

_Myra shook her head. "Of course I do."_

_Making her decision, she went back to Robb. She grabbed the shirt Jon had given her and soaked it in her water basin._

" _Put your arm on my desk."_

_Robb did as he was told, gingerly holding the limb out. Myra began to wash the wound with the cloth, cleaning off bits of blood that had already dried, but the cut still bled quickly. This would not be clean._

" _If you have something to drink, Brother, now would be a good time to take advantage of it."_

_While Robb drank rapidly from a skin Jon had seemingly produced from nowhere, Myra thread her needle and placed the tip over the candle._

" _Get him a belt too," she whispered, watching the flames curl around the tiny bit of metal. "No point in sneaking around if Robb's just going to wake Mother and Father."_

_Her twin opened his mouth, offended, but Jon produced his weapons belt, shaking his head._

" _Best not to question her now, Brother."_

_Eyes rolling, Robb sighed and bit down on the leather, lips twisting in slight revulsion at the taste._

_Served him right._

_Myra removed the needle, and positioned herself over Robb's arm, moving the candle around for the best light. She paused then, tip hovering just above her brother's skin, watching as blood seeped out of his wound. Her hand was trembling, as was her breath._

_She closed her eyes._

I can do this. I can do this. I-

* * *

_I can't do this._

"C'mon, Jaime!" Myra cried, attempting to drag the man to his feet. Whatever cold confidence she had felt just moments earlier had fled, leaving her alone with her fear and a dying man.

No, not dying, just…

Just  _not_ dying.

She didn't know where they would go, but any place had to be better than right here. Surely those men had a camp or something, a place where they'd tied their horses, anything. There had to be somewhere safe, someone who could help, something.

But she knew deep inside that if there were anyone, they would not help.

They were alone.

Jaime groaned, managing to find both the consciousness and strength to make the stand. Myra stuck to his right side, being the support his injured leg could not be. She thought her body would have buckled under the weight of his, but no such thing happened; she would hold him all day and night if she had to.

Myra glanced around the forest frantically. Which way should they go?

A whine caught her attention.

Lady ran in front of them, her fur newly matted with blood. She gave a small bark, as if trying to say something, and ran further into the forest, stopping after a few yards and turning back with an expectant look.

Myra readjusted her grip on Jaime's arm. Forward it was.

After a few, painstakingly slow steps, Brenna appeared at Jaime's side, sliding her head under his arm. The direwolf pushed against him, holding his body up a little more as they trudged forward.

"There's…a wolf…under my arm," Jaime mumbled between ragged breaths, so quiet she almost did not catch it.

Some part of her wanted to laugh. Another wanted to cry.

"Try not to think about it," Myra replied, managing to keep her voice steady.

The camp could not have been more than twenty yards away, nestled in a particularly thick growth of trees, but they might as well have been traveling to the Wall for how long it took them. Every step, every stumble, was a struggle that left Myra breathless and covered in a thick layer of sweat.

It was a scant affair. A few bedrolls, a pack or two, and the smoldering remains of a fire. One man had been left behind to guard it. Nymeria was tearing into his lifeless body with a ferocity that suggested eagerness. Brenna gave a low growl and her sister backed away into the trees, dragging the body with her.

Jaime collapsed at the first bedroll, dragging Myra down with him. Bumping her head against him, sense took a moment to reassert itself before she leapt up, attempting to remove her cloak. Her fingers shook, and it took her longer than she wished.

"Brenna, get him up," she ordered, tossing the cloak away. The direwolf did as she asked without hesitation, burying her muzzle under the small of Jaime's back and lifting him up. Crawling forward, Brenna laid down behind him, her body so large that he was almost completely upright. Lady simply watched, head tilting in curiosity.

Myra removed Jaime's cloak, gently sliding it off the still exposed arrow in his back and tossing it away. Then she grabbed her dagger, bringing it up to his tunic. Ignoring how badly her hands were shaking, she began to cut at the fabric, starting at his neckline and moving toward the shoulder. Though she was not harming him, every stitch torn made her want to jump out of her skin.

"Are you stripping me?" Jaime asked. The man even had the gall to give her the most lopsided grin she'd ever seen.

Gods, how reassuring it was.

"Does nothing kill that damned humor of yours?"

_Kill. He's going to be killed._

_No, he's not._

"Not really," he murmured as she continued to cut away at his tunic. Rather than risk moving the arm, she chose to rip it completely to the end of the sleeve, gently peeling the fabric off his bloodied skin.

The bleeding had slowed, thank the gods, but that would not be the case once she pulled the arrow out. Fortunately, it had not broken off completely when he fell, and the fighting hadn't pushed the barbed head back into the wound.

It was the leg she had to worry about.

It was the leg she didn't want to think about.

"I need something for this," she spoke, leaving Jaime's side to look through the camp. She wasn't running away, she told herself. She just…needed something.

_I can't do this._

Myra dashed around the camp, grabbing packs and overturning them. Lady even brought a few to her, dropping them at her feet as she searched through others. There wasn't much to them: bits of food, whetstones, tinder. In one bag, she found a fishing hook and some line, which quickly brought her to the terrible conclusion that she would more than likely need it in the near future. In another were a shirt and small flask, the latter filled with something dark and strong.

She took a swig from it.

It was the sort of foul stuff only Theon could have loved.

So, she took another.

Myra grabbed the shirt and returned to Jaime's side. He was staring off into the distance, still conscious, though she suspected she had Brenna to thank for that. The side of his face closest to the direwolf's head looked strangely clean.

"Fucking beast won't let me sleep," Jaime mumbled, eyes slipping shut briefly. Brenna responded in kind, licking him again.

"As if you deserve sleep after what you've put me through," Myra replied, attempting to smile and failing. She gently grabbed Jaime behind the neck and pulled him closer, easing her right leg behind him so she could have a good view of either side of the arrow.

"What  _I've_  put you through?"

At least offending the man kept him awake.

Myra grabbed her dagger again, cleaning off the broken end of the arrow. Debris in the wound could prove just as deadly as the injury itself.

Looping the shirt under his arm, Myra braced herself with a hand on either side of Jaime. Each held the fabric, one hovering over his back, ready to cover the wound, while the other gently gripped the arrowhead.

She took a breath.

And another.

_I have to do this._

"Jaime, I'm going to pull the arrow out. On the count of three." She felt him tense. "One…two…"

Myra ripped the arrow out, tossing it quickly aside. Jaime shouted, but she ignored the sounds and his movement, and how it made her heart drop, wrapping the shirt around his shoulder and tying it off on the front, hard.

When Myra backed away, Jaime fell against Brenna, but the direwolf did not appear to mind, looking on with inquisitive eyes.

"You forgot three," Jaime murmured, eyes shut in pain.

Myra didn't reply. She was too busy looking at her hands. They were warm and sticky, coated in red.

His blood.

_His_  blood.

_I don't want to do this_.

Lady knocked Myra from her thoughts, rubbing against her with a whine.

Myra looked down to Jaime's right leg. The arrow there, too, had been broken off, which didn't bode well for them. Unlike the first, this arrow did not go completely through. The head was buried in his leg, possibly deep, perhaps even in bone. This was something beyond her. Gods, the first arrow had been something she shouldn't have done. How could she possibly hope to save him?

_I can't_.

"Take it out."

Jaime was looking at her, his eyes clear and ill-timed humor gone.

"That arrow might be the only thing keeping you from bleeding to death."

"I don't care."

"Well, I do, Jaime Lannister," Myra snapped. "Don't make me…"

_Don't make me kill you._

"Myra," he said, voice not unkind. "Take it out."

She took a deep breath.

Then another.

Standing, Myra moved to the other side. She could feel Brenna's eyes on her as she began to cut away at his pant leg. The arrow was closer to his knee than not, finding itself in the less fleshy part of his leg. It did not appear to be in very deep, but looks were deceiving, and she had no idea how much of the arrow had broken off in battle.

The mess that greeted her when she cut away the last of the fabric made her stomach drop; the fight and subsequent movement had jostled the arrow, enlarging the hole in his leg. Myra thought she could almost see the beginnings of the arrowhead, but even now, pulling it out did not seem to be a good idea. Arrows weren't designed to come out as easily as they went in to targets, especially if one wanted the subject to live.

When she looked up, he was still watching her.

Jaime Lannister didn't ask for things, not like this. He'd done so much for her, given up more than he should have. She owed him.

_I need to do this._

"I…I can't sew this shut…there's…"

She didn't know how to say it.

Jaime fumbled around, producing his own dagger.

He knew.

Nodding once, Myra grabbed the blade, moving over to the fire. She picked at the still smoking bits, hoping to rekindle the flame. A few dried leaves and curse words later, and she had a small fire started. She put the blade in the flames and returned to his side.

"Brenna, keep him down."

Easing out from under Jaime, her direwolf gently rested her head on his chest, waiting.

Lady was whining again.

From the trees, she could swear Nymeria was watching.

Myra took a breath.

And then she plunged her fingers into the wound.

The scream that came from his mouth was inhuman.

Even with her size, Brenna seemed to struggle to hold Jaime down.

Myra tried to ignore it all, pushing her fingers through the blood and muscle of Jaime's leg. She could feel the wound pulse with his heartbeat. It made her sick, made her want to close her eyes and flee, but still she pressed forward, fingers gently reaching for the arrow; it wasn't much further than an inch inside, far away from the bone, thank the gods, but that did not make it much easier. It caught on every piece of flesh it could; it felt like hours of catching and her fingers slipping until she finally extracted the damned thing.

Jaime had gone silent ages ago, passed out from the pain.

Myra stared at the blood soaked arrow for a moment, before returning to the fire. She quickly grabbed Jaime's dagger, feeling the heat roll off the steel; she didn't have time to think about what she was doing because he was bleeding out rapidly into the dirt. So, she lined it up with the wound and pressed.

Had Jaime not already been unconscious, he would have been now.

The smell of burning flesh was not something she knew, and gods how she wished that were still true. She couldn't help but gag at the smell and the sound, her eyes watering. It was then that she realized she'd been crying this whole time.

Myra did not hold it in place long. When the bleeding stopped, she tossed the dagger away as if it had burned her as well.

She waited a moment for the wound to cool down, and then gently wrapped her cloak around it.

_I did it._

Brenna stepped aside, allowing Myra a proper look at Jaime. He was still pale, but didn't seem any worse. Gods knew that might not be the same in the days to come. But if he made it through the night, he might be all right.

That was what Maester Luwin always said, wasn't it?

Myra reached out to touch him, but her hand was still red. The blood that clung to it was thicker now, covered in bits of other things. It began to shake harder, so she grabbed it with her other hand, but now they both shook. Then her shoulders went, her legs, her entire body.

Gods, what had she done?

She grabbed at Jaime's cloak, desperately attempting to wipe the red off her hands, but no matter how hard she tried or how much her hands burned, it was to no avail. The red was still there.

She tossed the cloak aside with a shout, pounding her hands feebly on the earth over and over until her strength failed her.

Drawing her knees in, Myra rested her elbows on them, her hands hovering just over her head as she began to rock back and forth.

"Fuck!"

* * *

**Sansa**

The sun had yet to rise when she met Oberyn that morning.

She felt like a child again, sneaking out of her room to steal lemon cakes from the kitchens before anyone was the wiser. Or at least she had tried. Once. But at the last moment, she'd stopped, convinced that it wasn't for a proper lady to do.

Arya had stopped by later and given her some cakes she had stolen herself. And later that week, when she inevitably made her angry, Sansa told their mother of what she had done.

What a vile child she was.

With only the barest light on the horizon and torches lighting her path, the Water Gardens went from striking shades of orange to blue and back again. Her eyes strained against the shadows, looking to find the man who was offering her the chance to actually do something.

She picked up her skirts and shuffled to the edge of the training yard, where Ellaria had watched Oberyn fight his daughters. The way that the buildings around were structured allowed for a breeze to pass through almost constantly. In the cool, early morning air, Sansa nearly caught a chill. What a strange thing it was.

Oberyn emerged from behind one of the palm trees some time later, dressed in his yellow robes, but wearing riding boots and twirling his spear. He ignored her for a moment, taking his time to examine the environment, the rocks beneath his feet, the make of his weapon. Sansa did not say anything. It felt wrong to.

Then he casually pointed the spear at her.

"Is that what you plan on wearing when you avenge your family?"

Sansa blinked. "What?"

Oberyn strode forward, picking at the bottom of her dress with the spear. "I hope you do not plan on running. Loose silk trips and catches on everything. And it is too clean, too obvious, any guard who has half a mind will remember it and then you will be discovered. You cannot hide anything on your person; you cannot defend yourself when a stray hand catches the fabric and pulls you back. You have come poorly prepared, Sansa Stark."

He was leaning over, voice a hiss, bearing down on her with a look that reminded Sansa a little too much of Maester Luwin during his rare outbursts.

"You didn't tell me what to wear," she replied, soundly meeting his gaze.

"Should I have to?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. He began to circle her, a bird of prey sizing up its target. "I am not here to guide you through life; I am not your septa."

"My septa was murdered."

"And what did you do?"

Septa Mordane had told her to run, and she had not. She watched the sword get driven through her, felt her blood on her hands, and still she did not move. The man from the City's Watch came for her, and all she could do was beg.

Sansa's gaze slipped. "Nothing."

"Precisely," Oberyn said, stopping beside her. "You relied on my daughter to save you; you relied on her to get you out of King's Landing, you relied on that dog the Lannisters use to keep quiet about you, and now you are relying on my family to do the same. Everything that you have accomplished has been made possible through the grace of others. No more."

He held his arm out, handing her the spear. Sansa watched it for a moment, taking in the lines in the wood, the elegant curve of the head, and the bits of leather tied about it, left loose as decorative tassels. It was beautiful, in a simple sort of way.

"If you are not prepared, you will fail."

Sansa glanced up at Oberyn, taking in his serious gaze.

She reached for the spear.

Suddenly, Oberyn began to chuckle, pulling the weapon away from her. He stepped back a few paces, spinning the spear around him once again as his voice echoed through the open space.

All sense of seriousness and decorum aside, Sansa huffed. "What are you doing?"

"My apologies," Oberyn replied, bowing mockingly as he had for Myrcella. "My brother only allows me to be armed on the training grounds, so I take advantage when I can, but please, do not let my mood deceive you. I meant everything I said. However, I am not about to teach you how to wield a spear, or any such weapon. Although, I appreciate your willingness to do so."

"And why not teach me?" Sansa asked, incredulous. It certainly couldn't be because he thought a woman was incapable. His daughters were more than proof enough for that.

Oberyn paused, and then shoved the spearhead into the ground.

"Take it now."

Sansa waited a moment, eyes flitting between him and the spear. She stepped forward then, gripping the shaft with both hands and tugging.

It didn't budge.

She tried again.

Nothing.

"There is strength," Oberyn started, moving her aside. He used his boot to push down on the spear, angling it until Sansa could pry it loose. "And then there is the experience to know how to use that strength, to both advantage and disadvantage. Weaponry requires both, and you do not have the luxury of time."

Sansa looked to the spear in her hands, noting how foreign it felt in her grasp.

She remembered watching Robb and Jon spar back in Winterfell over the years. Today, they would be considered brilliant swordsman by any standard, but they had not always been that way. Once they had been awkward young boys swinging at one another clumsily with little wooden swords. It had taken years to get to where they were, and still they trained.

Why she thought she could amount to something like that proved how little she still knew.

Properly disheartened, Sansa handed the spear back to its owner.

"A woman such as yourself must learn to use what you already know," Oberyn continued, tossing the spear aside. "If you walk into the Red Keep with a sword on your hip, you will be soundly defeated."

"Then what am I to learn?"

"Cunning will be your shield, Sansa Stark. And your weapon?" Oberyn produced a small vial from a pocket hidden on his person. "Poison."

Sansa took what was offered, turning the vial over in her hands. A clear liquid sloshed inside.

"Tears of Lys. I've used it once or twice. It is effective, but there are far less costly ways to kill a man."

Kill a man.

Could she do that?

It was both an intriguing and disturbing thought.

Oberyn noted her silence. "There is still time to change your mind."

Sansa hummed, looking up. "Why teach me at all? You said it yourself: I'm not welcome here."

"Do not take my kindness as an invitation to all of Dorne," Oberyn replied, dark eyes serious, but not unkind. "Should the need arise, I will personally throw you from our borders. I believe the words of your mother's house explain that well enough."

Family. Duty. Honor.

Yes, she supposed they did.

"That said, I am not ignorant to your suffering. Far too many of us have lost loved ones to the deceit of King's Landing."

A distant look crossed Oberyn's face, dark and seeded with anger. Of course he would know of her suffering. His sister had been married to Rhaegar Targaryen, and murdered by the Mountain with her children.

How could she forget that?

Oberyn looked back down at her. The fury in his eyes should have terrified her, but instead, Sansa found a sort of comfort in it.

"It is up to those of us who remain to show the Lannisters that not all their debts are paid."

* * *

**Arya**

_Gregor Clegane, Ilyn Payne, Meryn Trant, Joffrey, Cersei, the Hound._

_Gregor Clegane, Ilyn Payne, Meryn Trant, Joffrey, Cersei, the Hound._

_Gregor Clegane, Ilyn Payne, Meryn Trant, Joffrey, Cersei, the Hound._

If she said the names, she'd never forget them; if she said the names, she would kill them.

One day.

"Is it midnight yet?" she heard Hot Pie whisper from somewhere behind her.

Arya's eyes came back into focus, staring down a darkened Harrenhal. They'd met at the forge, gathering what weapons they could handle and hiding in the deep corners hidden by its beams. Guards had passed every half hour, but now their patrols had dwindled, their steps slowed. With Tywin Lannister gone, things had returned to the complacency of before.

She probably could have left on her own, the way things were now.

But she wasn't stupid.

Gendry sighed. "Not yet."

"But…how can you tell?"

Arya ignored them, focusing on the man on the other side of the courtyard. As part of the deal for Jaqen's life, she had insisted they all leave, all four of them.

At some point, Jory had been forced to do hard labor. He'd obeyed well enough, citing once that it would be easier to keep an eye on her if he wasn't dead on one of the rare occasions she spoke with him, but her father's captain of the guard wasn't so obedient now. He snapped at guards, wore on their nerves, mocked them openly if he could. Arya had never seen him like that before. It made him more unrecognizable than the beard or missing eye.

That was how he wound up right back where he started, tied down and beaten when it was convenient.

At least they'd let him keep his boots.

"Did you bring the extra cloak?" Arya asked, interrupting the same argument about time between the boys.

"I did," Gendry replied.

"Good."

Then she took off, crossing the distance at a quick pace. Unlike before, she did not hide. There were no eyes here. Jaqen said he would get the job done, and she believed him. He did things that no man could. Everything would be fine.

Hopefully.

Jory stirred at the sound of her approach, looking up at her with a wide eye. The guards had at least granted him the courtesy of tying some cloth around his left one, sparing everyone from the sight.

"My lady, what are you doing here?" he asked, voice a whisper. He had avoided using her title before, but surprise usually made him retreat to what he knew.

"We're leaving," Arya replied, walking around the post. His hands had been cuffed to a chain that hung in the back.

"That sounds like a fine idea. Tell me, how do you propose we do so?"

Arya smiled, seeing the key to his chains neatly placed in the slot.

"Like this," she said, turning it.

Hands slipped from the cuffs, Jory turned around and stared at her as if she had turned into something else entirely. Perhaps she had.

"How did you…"

"A man is helping us."

"Man? What man?"

"You'll see."

The boys ran over as Jory stood, lamely offering the man a cloak and sword. Jory appraised them, his eyebrow rising slightly.

"These are my friends, Hot Pie and Gendry. They're coming with us."

Jory's eye took a strange look at the latter's name.

"Gendry…from King's Landing?"

Her friend stood straight, defiant. "What of it?"

Her father's captain looked down at her. "You keep strange company, my lady."

The four made their way through Harrenhal, snaking through its uneven paths, blocked by bits of burnt rubble or broken carts. Though the rain had finally relented, the mud had not, claiming victims of a good amount of equipment and clothing. The men seemed less motivated every day to do anything about it.

When they came to the final stretch, they ducked behind a low wall, watching the guards that stood by the gate.

"I thought there weren't supposed to be any guards?" Gendry asked, incredulous.

"There aren't," Arya replied.

"Then why are they there?"

"I don't know," she hissed, meeting her friend's round, blue eyes. "But Jaqen said we were to walk through the gate at midnight, and that's what I'm doing."

Jory put a hand on her shoulder. "My lady, those guards will sound the alarm before you even make it to the gate. We'd all be dead within the hour, if we're lucky."

Arya shrugged off his hand. They were wrong; they had to be. It didn't make sense otherwise. Jaqen H'ghar had not backed down on his word yet, and he'd already provided the key to free Jory. Why would he do that if he was just going to let them die anyway?

Taking a breath, Arya slipped out of Jory's reach, jogging out into the opening. She ignored the muffled cries behind her, determined to leave this dreadful place once and for all.

However, footsteps caught up with her quickly.

Jory wrapped his arm around her shoulders, swinging her behind him. She beat his arm with her hands, but his grip was unrelenting as he put himself between her and the men at the gates. His other hand held out the sword they'd given him, challenging.

But nothing happened.

Jory's heavy breathing filled the silence for the better part of a minute before Arya felt his grip loosen. Wrenching herself free, she stepped out of the cover he'd provided, looking between him and the men he'd hoped to fight.

"They're dead," he spoke, awed. "They're all dead."

* * *

Dawn was slow to come that morning. A thick fog had fallen overnight, wrapping the countryside in a ghostly mist that clung low to the ground and soared high above the trees. For fear of running into Lannister patrols, they had been tempted to stop; for fear of running into them, they also kept going.

Eventually, the air cleared to a reasonable distance, allowing the fleeing prisoners a moment of respite. Their breath eased, strides growing longer and louder, and Hot Pie even thought to crack a joke.

It wasn't a very good one.

Arya walked beside Jory the entire time, wondering when best to speak. She'd never gotten more than a sentence or two out of him in Harrenhal, mostly because he always shooed her away. They knew him, he said, but they didn't know her, and he preferred it stay that way.

"Jory," she started. "How'd you wind up in Harrenhal?"

"Your sister had me bring word to your brother on her condition in Dragonstone. I was captured trying to make my way back to her." She heard him sigh. He sounded sad. "I suppose she's still there now."

"No, she isn't."

Her father's captain froze in his tracks, staring down at her as if she had gone mad. Behind them, Gendry and Hot Pie had grown very quiet.

"What do you mean?"

Arya straightened. "Tywin Lannister made me his cupbearer, and I heard them talking. She escaped nearly two months ago with the Kingslayer."

For the briefest of moments, Jory looked positively relieved, but then the tension in his shoulders returned twofold as he mulled over her words.

"Jaime Lannister," he spat. "Your sister is on the run with Jaime Lannister?"

"Is something wrong?" she asked. Her sister had always seemed friendly with the Kingslayer. She didn't know why, but Arya knew Myra would never go with a man she didn't trust, even if he was a Lannister.

Jory huffed. She'd never seen him so angry before.

"That man is the reason all this has happened," he said slowly, clutching the hilt of his sword a little tighter. "He's the one who pushed your brother from the tower."

When they'd settled in that night, Arya began her prayer anew.

_Gregor Clegane, Ilyn Payne, Meryn Trant, Joffrey, Cersei, the Hound, the Kingslayer…_

* * *

**Jaime**

_There were dark and formless things that crept about his mind, consuming his thoughts until he was left with but one. The same one that found him in the day as well as the night._

_There he stood, his sword glistening with the blood of Aerys Targaryen, the Second of his Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm. In the ill-lit room, the liquid took on a sickly black hue, but it was blood all the same, neither wreathed in flame nor gnawing away at the steel of his blade._

_He'd named it once, hadn't he? Some foolish word that mimicked Ser Arthur Dayne, the result of a giddy boy unprepared for what was to come._

_For this._

_He stepped forward, stuck in time, unable to deviate. His hand grasped the shoulder of the king, pulling him to his knees. He felt so light, Jaime thought he could toss him from the walls of the keep itself._

_At least then they would not know._

_Instead, his sword glided swiftly across the king's neck, turning his final words into nothing more than bloody gurgles. What a pathetic noise it was._

_But as Aerys brought his gaze skyward to glance one last time at the man – the boy – who betrayed him, Jaime was met not with those strange, violet eyes, but blue, bright and familiar and gone from this world like those that came before._

_Robert._

Kingslayer.

_His mouth formed the words, daring to grin as he took his final breath._

Kingslayer.

_Gray eyes huddled under a pristine white cloak watched him, but he could not bring himself to meet their steady gaze._

_Jaime tossed Robert's body aside. It collapsed into ash._

" _He saw us."_

_Turning, Jaime found himself no longer in the Red Keep, but that damned broken tower in Winterfell. In his hand was not a sword, but a scared little boy. Bran clung to his shirt and the window fiercely, but his strength would be nothing next to him, to the Lion of Lannister, slayer of boys and old men._

_Once again, Myra was there, still wearing his cloak and standing beside Cersei. She did not plead for her brother this time. There was a neutral expression on her face, observant, waiting._

" _He saw us," Cersei hissed, completely unaware of her presence._

_Jaime felt his hand begin to nudge the boy. Though he tried, he could not pull it free. He could only delay the inevitable._

_Now he met Myra's gaze. "I can't stop."_

_She gave him a sad smile. "I know."_

_He watched her walk forward, standing beside him at the window. Behind them, Cersei screamed, but he did not hear the words, he did not care for them._

_Myra placed a comforting hand on her brother's shoulder, calming the boy._

_Then she took Jaime's hand in hers, and together, they pushed Bran from the tower._

_Tears falling down her cheeks, Myra turned to Jaime. She was back in her traveling clothes, face scuffed up, that stick still in her hair. Her hand still held on to his. She briefly turned to Cersei, who continued to scream with no sound._

" _What did she leave you with, Jaime?"_

. . .

His eyes opened to a dark sky, and the faintest impression of light in his periphery.

He attempted to speak, but his tongue was like cotton and his throat was parched; he wheezed and coughed instead, a terrible pain shooting through his shoulder.

"Jaime!"

Something met his lips, and suddenly there was water, slow and steady, pouring into his mouth. He drank the cool liquid greedily, and nearly choked, sputtering as the source was pulled away.

"Nothing," he choked, his voice raspy.

Myra's face came closer, her features suddenly discernable from the darkness. Her cheek was bruised, face etched with worry. She looked as if she hadn't slept in days.

"What?" she asked.

"She left me with nothing."

He watched her ponder the words, and then a sad look crossed her face. She reached out, hand brushing his hair out of the way, stroking his cheek with the softest touch. Sighing, Jaime felt himself lean into it. How long had it been since he'd felt something so gentle?

"Go back to sleep," Myra said, her hand departing.

"Stay," he murmured, missing her presence even as his mind began to drift again.

Though his eyes were closed, Jaime thought she might have smiled. He felt her sit next to him, her hand returning to his hair, fingers running tenderly through it. His mother had done that once.

"As you wish."


	30. The Discovery

**Myra**

Before he spoke to her, Jaime Lannister had been unconscious for three days.

The first had been the easiest.

After she had managed to compose herself, Myra had cleaned up as best as she could. She made certain that Jaime was as comfortable as she could manage, and then set about distracting herself. She straightened out the camp, organized the items that would be useful, tossing the rest. Since moving her companion was out of the question, Myra made a new fire to his left, hoping it would be enough to keep him warm for the time being. She let the flames soar as high as they dared. With her three new guardians, Myra did not care who might have seen the smoke.

Given that looking at anything else was preferable to the broken man suddenly left in her care, Myra and Brenna returned to the scene of the attack, the latter seeming to bark on order at her sister. Lady sat beside Jaime and did not move until they had returned.

She combed through the bodies strewn across the forest floor, searching for anything else of use. Their wretched states did not faze her in the slightest. At the sight of every new body, she would simply look at them, appreciate the deserved damage the direwolves had dealt, and hoped that they had not gone quickly. Deep down, some part of her was disturbed, but the sensation was thoroughly buried under a fury like no other. Who was she to feel pity when the entire world sought to harm her?

One body had remained untouched. It was the large man she had stabbed, the one who had held her back as his comrades attacked Jaime. He was seated at the base of a tree. From a distance, he looked to be merely resting in its shade, but his eyes had the unfocused appearance of death, his trousers soaked completely through with blood. Apparently, she'd hit that spot Jaime had told her of, the kind to render a man dead in minutes.

_Good._

She hadn't expected Jaime to be awake when she returned, arms full of water skins and other trinkets, but it was disheartening all the same. So, she sat beside him and began to clean up the blood on his body.

His fever started some time in the night.

Given how dark it was, Myra had to wait until morning to check his wounds. Until then, she had bundled him up with as many blankets and cloaks that she could find around the camp, and then sat beside him throughout the night, listening to his teeth chatter and the occasional moan escape his lips. He moved quite frequently, and she struggled to keep both the cloaks in place and his leg from further harm.

Brenna and Lady had watched on, large beasts rendered utterly useless. Myra thought she saw the glow of Nymeria's eyes from the trees, but the darkness played tricks all the time.

Come morning, he still lived, yet that did not put her mind at ease.

Myra cleaned out his leg, pursing her lips at how tender it was. It did not appear infected, but at the end of the day, she wasn't Maester Luwin, and knew little of such things. Still, she knew it could be worse, and if she did not keep up the care, it would be, at which point Jaime would be all but finished.

The shoulder was less concerning, although it still leaked. Deciding it was for the best, Myra grabbed the fishing supplies she had found and, after giving herself a generous helping of the atrocious alcohol she had picked up, began to sew the wound shut.

Jaime had mumbled something incoherent at first, but was otherwise silent as she worked. The hook was hardly made for such a task, and she'd made quite a mess of it, but in the end, the stitches were strong, and would hold the wound closed.

After an awkward affair of positioning and attempting to not drop Jaime on his head, because rolling onto his side would never work with his leg, Myra managed to get him upright, and sewed the entry wound closed as well. He'd mumbled a bit more at that, names and other things. She thought she'd heard hers.

Unable to do more, Myra simply sat and watched.

_Please don't die._

Brenna rarely left her side, her presence a small comfort as Myra waited. Lady moved often, but never the left camp. Nymeria was rarely seen.

Jaime only seemed to get worse when night fell again.

Throwing as much wood on the fire as she dared, lest it spread out of control, Myra laid beside Jaime's right side, helping to keep him warm where the fire could not. She gingerly placed her legs as close to him as she dared without disrupting the wound, then rested her chin gently beside his shoulder. Hesitantly, her right arm reached out, hovering over his chest a few moments before resting on it. Against the firelight, she watched it rise and fall with every breath he took, felt the heat radiate from his body even through the layers, afraid to close her eyes. She would not sleep that night either, wracked with the fear that she would wake to a still and cold body.

_Please don't die._

On the third day, Myra never moved.

Jaime was so warm, she thought he felt like the fire itself, but his body still shook as if winter had arrived, and so she remained. Through the heat of the day, even as the sun passed overhead and broke through the few openings in the trees, leaving her sweat-soaked and weary, Myra never moved. She couldn't. If anything happened, it was her fault. If he died…

_Please don't die._

_Please don't die._

_Please don't die._

It was a prayer spoken to any who would listen, carrying her through the day and into the night.

He'd stilled at some point, and that was what broke Myra from her stupor. She reached up, gently resting the back of her hand against his forehead.

The fever had broken.

Myra allowed herself a small smile.

She sat up some time afterwards, realizing how hungry she was. Sifting through what supplies she had, she opted to nibble on some dried meat, reveling in the sweet relief she felt. His journey was not over yet, but she liked to hope that the worst had passed. It felt nice to hope again.

That was when he woke up.

"She left me with nothing."

It was not the words themselves that gave her pause, but the manner in which Jaime had spoken them, as if he had only just realized the answer to her long forgotten question himself. Even through the pain and the uneven speech of a parched throat, Myra could hear the lilt of surprise, a twinge of sadness and disappointment, betrayal even.

He'd looked so utterly miserable in that moment; Myra could not help but reach out to him. Though nowhere near a feverish state, his face was still warm to the touch, beard coarse under her fingers. She felt the pressure of his face turning into her hand and briefly wondered how aware of the situation he truly was.

When he asked her to stay, she was almost positive he was delirious, but she obliged him nonetheless. As she had done for her brothers whenever they were ill, Myra began to run her hand through his hair over and over. Lulled by the sensation, Jaime was asleep soon after.

A woman of her word, Myra remained by his side, watching on as he slept. He looked so relaxed, the pain and the cares of the world gone. He appeared to her a boy then, beard and all, and one so utterly in love with a woman. And that woman had taken his love and done the vilest of things: denied him all that she had been given. The thought left her so upset, she'd completely forgotten that the woman in question was his twin.

The toil of the days catching up with her, Myra was suddenly unable to keep her eyes open.

With the direwolves keeping guard, she took no issue with sleep claiming her as she curled up against Jaime once more.

* * *

Her eyes opened against a harsh light. Hand hovering above her head, Myra realized it was midday. How long she had slept, and still the urge to continue remained. Though sorely tempted, she began to stretch, hoping to cook a proper – hopefully shared – meal, whatever that meant nowadays, until she realized something was holding her in place.

Reaching around, thinking Brenna or Lady may have curled up beside her in the night, Myra nearly jumped out of her skin when she found a hand grasping her waist. After taking a few, well-needed breaths, she realized it was Jaime's.

Oh.

Face suddenly warm, Myra glanced up at the man beside her. Jaime was still fast asleep, his eyes fluttering slightly as if he were dreaming, and his breath slow and even. He must have moved some time in the night, a natural reflex, and she, utterly spent, had not noticed.

Briefly, her mind touched on the notion that he may have held Cersei this way, but her embarrassment quickly drowned it.

Of course, Jaime was not the only one to move. Myra became very aware of the fact that rather than lying next to him, she had taken to resting her head on his shoulder and her arm, though now free, had been flung across his chest.

 _Oh_.

She wasn't certain how to proceed. Attempting to untangle herself might wake him up and lead to a terribly awkward situation, but waiting for him to naturally come to would be much the same, and honestly she could not decide which would be worse.

Unable to choose, Myra just continued to stare, desperately hoping the rapid pounding of her heart didn't wake him.

That was when she heard the voices.

Myra shot upright, grasping her dagger and bolting to the nearest tree. Jaime did not stir. She probably could have kicked him in the face and he would have slept on.

Clinging to the trunk, Myra watched two individuals on horseback weave their way through the trees, keeping close to the creek. Both wore well-made armor, the best she'd seen since Maidenpool. They were definitely soldiers, perhaps even knights, but to whose army did they belong? Or were they deserters?

The two brought their steeds to a halt, glancing around the area, conversation fallen silent. They would be standing about where the attack took place, which was undoubtedly what caught their attention. She watched the larger of the two, blonde and taller than most people she'd ever come across, turn their head this way and that before unsheathing their sword.

Myra turned away, hand covering her mouth to keep the gasp from escaping. Gods above, what was she going to do? They had barely escaped the last group and Jaime would not longer be able to defend himself. He wouldn't even be able to stand!

A quick glance told her that they direwolves had taken the opportunity to disappear as well.

Gods, but didn't they have impeccable timing.

She looked over again. The large soldier had dismounted and was speaking in hushed tones to the other. With a turn and a shout, the second rider took off, pushing his horse hard and fast. Whomever they were with, the rest would surely be back soon.

But right now, there was only one. This was the best chance they would have.

Myra gripped the dagger with both hands, taking deep breaths, desperately attempting to remember what Jaime had told her about weak points in armor.

"Lady Myra!" called out the distinctly feminine voice.

She froze.

They knew her name? Was it a trap? Who were they? She knew of few women who wielded weapons. Dacey Mormont was certainly tall, but she sounded nothing like this woman, and she did not wear her hair so short.

"Lady Myra, can you hear me?"

The woman had drawn close as Myra had debated her identity. Scooting around the tree trunk so that she would not be seen, she watched the large woman step into the camp, examining every inch for a sign.

She wore bronze armor of the highest quality. It was the sort her father would have scoffed at, made for knights at play rather than warriors who meant to kill. She was no Northerner, though her accent gave that much away, and Myra had never heard of any famed warrior women from the Riverlands.

Who was this woman?

Stopping before Jaime, Myra watched the woman sheathe her sword and kneel down beside him.

Her grip on the dagger tightened.

"The Kingslayer," she heard the woman whisper.

Something snapped inside.

Myra ran forward, closing the distance between herself and the woman faster than the latter could react to. Before she could stand, Myra had placed the edge of the dagger against the side of her neck.

"Don't you touch him," Myra hissed, pushing the dagger closer.

Slowly, the woman raised both hands in surrender. Even kneeling, her head must have come to her chest. Myra knew that despite her position, she was hardly the one in power.

Jaime, meanwhile, had yet to stir. He slept on, completely unaware of the drama unfolding before him.

"My lady, if I may-" the woman started, attempting to look over her shoulder. It only prompted Myra to move the dagger closer. The woman made a sound and looked forward again.

"How do you know my name?" Myra asked.

"Your mother and brother sent me to find you."

Though she knew better than to believe her words, Myra could not still the hope that blossomed in her chest.

"Who are you?"

There was a pause. "My name is Brienne of Tarth."

The name sounded familiar, and Myra tried to comb through years of lessons. Tarth, the Sapphire Isle, and House Tarth of Evenfall Hall. A noble house, though not a large one, and…

"Tell me, how does a woman from the Stormlands come into the service of Lady Stark of Winterfell?"

"Not easily, my lady."

Myra allowed herself a moment. It was too easy, was it not? Surely half the countryside knew that she was missing, and any man, or in this case woman, could claim that they worked for her mother. But she could have claimed to be from any place along the Trident. Instead, she said she was from Tarth, an answer that would immediately draw more suspicion than not.

Part of her just wanted to slit the woman's throat, if she could, but something was holding her back, some little thing in the recesses of her mind.

For the second time that morning, Myra Stark did not know what to do.

It was at that moment that Brenna decided to reappear.

The direwolf trotted into camp as if nothing had changed since the previous night. Myra watched her with narrowed eyes, knowing a traitor when she saw one. The creature ignored her, walking right up beside her and nudging her arm with her snout.

"Your wolf led me here," Brienne said, her voice surprisingly even for a woman with a knife at her throat. "She found us by the river some three miles away and came here. She's quite large, your direwolf. Larger than your brother's I should think. What is her name?"

Myra took a breath, feeling her fingers flex against the hilt. She looked over at Brenna, who began to lightly nip at her wrist. Perhaps her direwolf could smell Grey Wind on this woman; perhaps she knew…

Sighing, Myra removed the dagger and took a step back. "Brenna."

The woman rubbed her neck gently before standing and turning around to face her. She was a homely woman, and bore the look of one who not only knew that, but had been told as much all her life, but there was a confidence in her, a pride in what she did that gave Brienne a sort of regal bearing. Myra doubted she was actually a knight, but she certainly looked the part.

Unsheathing her sword and dropping to one knee again, Brienne looked up at her, that same pride burning brightly in her eyes. It reminded her of Jory. What had happened to him?

"My sword is yours, Lady Myra, until I've seen you safely back with your family."

It was funny, Myra thought as she extended a hand to her. The woman had the same brilliant blue eyes as her direwolf.

* * *

**Arya**

She saw him before the others, mostly because she'd been searching for him ever since they'd left Harrenhal.

Arya thought Jaqen looked rather smug, staring down at them from the outcropping. It was a funny look for a man who might have killed himself because she'd said his name. But she did what she had to, and now they were free.

Jory noticed him next. His head was on a swivel constantly, maybe moreso because of the missing eye. He'd nearly unsheathed his sword until she grabbed his arm, pulling it back down.

He looked at her like she was crazy, which really wasn't so different from before. It felt a bit like home.

"That's the man," Arya said, though when she looked back up, Jaqen had disappeared.

Jory watched the empty space, his eye wide. Gendry and Hot Pie both had ridiculous looks on their faces with their jaws slack and eyes frantically searching their surroundings. Arya realized it probably should have concerned her as well, but so long as he was on her side, she didn't really care what strange sorts of things he was up to.

She began to walk up the hill, knowing he'd be waiting for her, until Jory's hand grasped her wrist.

"My lady, what are you doing?"

"Going to see Jaqen," she replied, attempting to shake out of his grip. "Let me go."

Jory did not give in. "My lady, I cannot allow that."

She almost rolled her eyes. All this 'my lady' business was going to get them into trouble. It was bad enough that Gendry had returned to mocking her over it. He kept bowing every time she tried to speak, and Hot Pie was almost afraid to even say her name, as if Jory would beat him into the ground over it.

Well, maybe he would. She wasn't quite sure.

"'My lady,' you said. 'My lady.' Doesn't that mean I'm in charge? I outrank you and I let you out, so I'm going to see Jaqen. Let me go."

Reluctantly, Jory released her wrist. "At least allow me to accompany you."

"A man does not have trust."

Arya turned to see Jaqen H'ghar standing behind Jory and her, taking the space between them and Gendry and Hot Pie. The latter had made a funny sort of noise and was currently sitting on the ground. Meanwhile, Gendry was pointing his sword at him, standing side face, just like she mentioned.

Jory brought his hand back to the hilt of his sword. "You run around dressed as a Lannister guard in order to kill Lannister men. What is there to trust?"

The corner of Jaqen's mouth twitched. "A man prefers honesty and straightforwardness. A naïve perspective, but respectable."

She couldn't help but smirk at the slow, but steadily building, look of offense on Jory's face.

Jaqen returned his attention to her. "A girl wishes to remain?"

"Where else would I go?"

"To Braavos."

Jory stepped forward, attempting to place himself between her and Jaqen. "That is out of the question."

On his part, Jaqen appeared more bemused than offended. He glanced down at her. "Does a girl speak for herself?"

"She does!" Arya shouted, a little too quickly, as she stepped in front of Jory. "Would you teach me how to do it? How to kill like you?"

"If a girl wishes."

"My lady-"

"A girl has many names on her list," Jaqen continued, eying Jory. "Names the Many-Faced God would accept. A girl would do well in Braavos, better than in Westeros. Perhaps a man should reconsider what he is capable of."

Jory nearly drew his sword at that. She could see his face turning red, in anger or suddenly realized embarrassment, she didn't know.

Arya took a breath, thinking. "My sister, Myra, is still out there. She isn't safe, and we should find her. And everyone else too."

_Even Sansa._

Jaqen nodded, seeming to accept her decision, and then he offered up a coin.

* * *

_Valar Morghulis._

Arya kept repeating the phrase over and over. Maester Luwin always said she was terrible at remembering anything: house names, sigils, which cities belonged to which kingdom. But if she said it over and over again, it became easier. The words didn't disappear deep into her mind, but stuck together. Riverrun was always with Tully, Lannisport to Lannister, Storm's End to Baratheon. If she could remember those, she could remember this.

_Valar Morghulis._

"So…" Hot Pie started, breaking Arya's concentration. She suddenly realized they'd all been silent for some time. "Can we buy supplies with that?"

Arya turned the coin over in her fingers before shoving it in a pocket. "It's not that kind of coin."

"What kind is it then?"

Jory walked past all three of them, taking the lead. "The kind to be forgotten."

Arya glared at his back, but said nothing. Then again, he probably knew. He always did when it came to her.

Gendry, who'd been staring at his boots ever since they'd left the area, suddenly looked up, a strange determination in his eyes.

"You know my name."

Jory turned back, though he couldn't have seen much. It was over his left shoulder, where the eye was missing, but he was too proud to switch sides. "I do."

"How?"

It was silent for a while, save for the squelching of boots in mud. Arya wanted to break the tension somehow, but felt it was wrong. Hot Pie just kept glancing at everyone and looked about ready to run the instant anything happened.

"I was Lord Stark's Captain of the Guard, and I was with him when he visited you on the Street of Steel. Do you remember that?"

"Course I do," Gendry replied, almost offended. "Hard to forget when the Hand of the King comes bothering you with questions."

"Hey!" Ayra shouted.

Gendry shrugged. "What? He was."

"And what did he ask you?"

"He asked me that, for one," Gendry continued, hunching his shoulders, suddenly uncomfortable with the conversation. "Asked me about the other Hand, my mother…"

"Did he ask about your father?"

"Of course not. I'm a bastard."

Jory chuckled suddenly. "He would want to keep that secret, though I suppose it doesn't matter now."

Arya turned her head. "Jory, what are you talking about?"

The group came to a stop when he turned to face them. "He's not just a bastard, my lady. He's Robert Baratheon's bastard."

She blinked.

Oh.

Hot Pie took the moment to finally speak again. "So…does that make you royalty?"

Gendry, who had paled and looked about ready to fall over, whirled on the boy. "Course it doesn't! I'm not…I can't be…my mother worked in a tavern."

Jory nodded, oddly pleased with himself. "Yes, and your father was Lord of the Seven Kingdoms."

Arya looked between them, the pieces connecting. "That's why the gold cloaks were looking for you!"

"The gold cloaks came for him?"

She nodded. "They attacked us, and killed Yoren."

"Who's Yoren?"

"He was from the Night's Watch; he was taking me home."

Hot Pie blinked. "So…you  _are_  royalty."

Gendry threw his arms in the air. "I'm not bloody fucking royalty!"

"You just might be," Jory agreed, playing with the hilt on his sword. "The princes and the princess are baseborn Lannisters. There isn't a drop of Baratheon blood in them."

Now Gendry definitely looked ready to faint. "Bastards can't inherit."

Jory shrugged. "And why not? Joffrey did."

Arya snickered, the overwhelming need to capitalize on the event taking over. "Are you going to be alright, Your Grace?"

She knew that look on his face; she'd seen it in the eyes of every one of her siblings when she'd taken something too far. It had been a while since that happened, and she hadn't realized how much she missed it.

He pointed a finger. "Don't you start…"

"My apologies, Your Grace," she continued, bowing her head. She looked up again in time to dodge a swipe in her direction. Laughing, she danced around him, shouting 'Your Graces' until he all but collapsed in the dirt out of frustration.

Jory smirked at their antics, but the humor was gone quickly. "Come now, we need to find somewhere safe before dark. Your…friend may have gotten us out, but I doubt he'll stop the Lannister soldiers from searching for us."

The mood instantly dissipating, all three fell into line behind Jory, following silently, for the most part. Hot Pie took a moment to mumble something about 'royalty' again, but was quickly silenced by an elbow in his side.

Meanwhile, Arya took the coin back out, running the iron between her fingers again.

 _Valar Morghulis_.

* * *

**Jaime**

When he first woke, Jaime had no idea where he was.

For a moment, he thought he was back in King's Landing, having fallen asleep…somewhere. Hopefully not in the gardens, though gods knew why he would be there. He'd never hear the end of it from Robert.

No, that wasn't right. Robert was dead.

The memories returned to him with such ferocity that Jaime gasped, frantically turning his head to search for their attackers. Instead of armed men, however, he was met with a muzzle and a cold nose poking at his face.

He was not particularly proud of the noise he made.

"Lady!" shouted a familiar voice. Myra suddenly came into view, grasping at the fur of the creature as if it was a regular hound rather than _a giant fucking wolf_. "Lady, get off him!"

The direwolf whined, but obeyed, stalking away toward another, even larger one. They nipped at one another a moment before turning their gazes back in his direction. The intelligence in their eyes disturbed him.

"So, that wasn't a dream," Jaime murmured.

Myra smiled softly. "You should be grateful for that. If it was, we'd be dead."

A dark look passed over her features as she said those words. He saw Myra toying with the cloth that covered him. It appeared to be someone's cloak.

"How long?"

"Three days."

"Three days?!" Jaime shouted. He shot upright, or rather tried to. In his weakened state, he could hardly lift his own body, and when he tried to use his arms, pain shot through the left one as it gave out. It took Myra wrapping her arms around his shoulders and pulling him upright to finally get him off the ground.

He realized then, as her soft hands gently touched his skin, that part of his shirt was gone.

Jaime reached with his right hand, touching the jagged line where an arrow had once protruded from his shoulder.

"I used fishing line," Myra explained, her voice distant. "Don't have much in the way of bandaging, so I left it uncovered. It seems to be doing fine."

Remembering his other wound, Jaime pulled the cloak off his body. His pant leg had been cut apart around where the arrow had been, the affected area wrapped by some bloody cloth.

"I've kept it clean. I don't think it's infected," she continued, running her fingers along the makeshift bandage. "Fortunately for both of us, you weren't conscious when I closed it."

Jaime took a breath, trying to remember what exactly happened. His memory was full of fleeting images mostly, impressions about what happened. Pain had a way of stealing a good many of things from a person, not just their peace of mind.

"You dug it out…" he started, remembering the moment before. She'd given him the most terrified look he had ever seen, even moreso than when she was attacked, and then, without hesitation, stuck her fingers in the wound.

Everything was a blank from that point on.

Myra shrugged. "You asked me to."

Jaime blinked. He had, hadn't he?

He looked over at Myra, really looked at her, and could see right through her indifferent façade; he had asked the impossible of her and she had done it, and for that she had been left alone with an unconscious man for days. Jaime could see the strain in her dark eyes, how her frown seemed deeper than the last time he saw it. Her hands were shaking slightly in her lap.

"I shouldn't have done that."

"Maybe," Myra agreed, clenching her hands together. "Maybe not. I can't say that you wouldn't be dead now if I had left it in. I can't…I can't say that if I hadn't, that I wouldn't have had to pull it out at any other point, that you wouldn't have bled out in front of me like some stuck pig. You could have died in so many ways and I-"

The woman was getting hysterical. Jaime reached out and grabbed one of her hands while the other frantically wiped tears from her face.

"You saved my life," Jaime said slowly, squeezing her hand. "Thank you."

Myra began to laugh at that. Jaime smiled at her change of demeanor, although he wasn't sure of the reason.

"What?" he asked.

The woman took a breath, regaining her composure. "Gratitude sounds strange coming from you, Jaime Lannister, especially without heavy amounts of sarcasm behind it."

"Would you prefer it that way?"

She smiled sheepishly. "Would it be strange if I said yes?"

Possibly, he thought. Not many people appreciated his nature, save for Tyrion. He seemed to recall Myra bristling at it as well some time back. It felt like ages ago, in another land entirely.

Having calmed, Myra took to looking at the hand on hers. "You woke up last night. Do you remember that?"

He didn't, but something in the tone of her voice told him that he should have.

"What happened?"

Her smile had grown sad. "Nothing you'd want to hear from me."

Jaime opened his mouth to ask her more, though he wasn't entirely sure he wanted the answer, when a figure walked out from the woods.

"What in the seven hells is that?" he asked, eying the armored thing walking toward them. Monstrously tall and horrible to look at, he was suddenly uncertain as to whether or not he was actually awake.

Myra rolled her eyes, though she seemed tense. "Ser Jaime, this is the Lady Brienne of Tarth."

"It's a woman?"

For that, he received a smack on the arm.

"She's sworn in service to my mother," Myra continued, replacing the cloak over his leg. He did not miss the flash of her dagger catching the sunlight as she placed it beside him. "And is here to see me safely returned to her."

Jaime also did not miss the slightly emphasis she put on 'me.' Though it would not have been hard for him to guess at given the obvious glares the giant woman was throwing his direction, Myra was trying to give him a hint. She did not know what Brienne would do with him, and she did not want to take any chances.

For the first time, as Jaime looked up at this woman and the real possibility of winding up with the Starks, he wondered what it might have been like to have travelled with those men from the inn, to have gone back to King's Landing, to have gone back to…

Then he remembered why he didn't wonder about that. He would have been alone, because the woman next to him would have been dead.

"She's sent my brother's squire to bring him here," Myra said, sounding oddly subdued for a woman so close to returning to her family. "It should take a few days, so once you've rested, you'll get on her horse and ride south."

Brienne stepped forward. "My lady, I do not think that wise."

"It speaks!" Jaime shouted, prompting another hit from Myra. It was certainly a confusing message she was sending him, giving him a dagger as warning against this Brienne character while simultaneously assaulting him for being improper toward her.

"What would you suggest then, Lady Brienne?" Myra asked. "Take him to my brother in chains?"

Brienne stood straighter as she was challenged, holding the hilt of her sword like the gallant knight she was pretending to be.

"There are crimes which he must answer for, my lady. Crimes against the realm, and your family."

Myra stood then, looking insulted on his behalf. He was reminded of that day she stood up to Robert.

"I haven't spent weeks on the run with this man, saving him as he's saved me, only to throw him in a cage like an animal," Myra said, her voice dangerously low. He could see her fists clenching. "When he is stronger, he leaves."

She turned around and stormed off, clearly having had enough of people for the time being. The large direwolf took off after her, casually trotting by her side as Myra scratched behind its ear.

The one Myra had called Lady took the opportunity to curl up beside him.

Jaime smiled, smug. "I think they like me more than you."

Brienne's eyes narrowed. "Know this, Kingslayer, should any harm come to her, I will-"

"'Should any harm come to her,' really? You heard her yourself, we've been together for quite a while. I think if I intended to harm her, I would have preferred it without witnesses," Jaime replied.

The woman didn't necessarily look ashamed, but he could see her falter slightly. She took her hand off the hilt of her sword and stepped away, moving to the far edge of the camp. It gave her plenty of room away from him, but he was still well within sight.

Lovely.

Jaime fell back against the bedroll, doing his best to ignore the giant, the wolf, and whatever other uncomfortable thoughts about his future that were roaming about his mind. There was no denying he was running out of time. Robb Stark's army was coming, but with his leg the way it was, there was nothing he could do about it, not yet. But he was determined that he would not be caught, not again.

So, instead, he found himself trying to remember what had made Myra so sad.


	31. The Bonds

**A/N:** I don't speak on here often (FF.net is more of my domain), but if you ever have any questions, by all means direct them to my Tumblr (have-fun-storming-the-kastle). I promise I'm friendlier than I seem. Just be warned, there are spoilers for this story on that blog since my main story account is ahead of this one. Thank you!

* * *

 

**Brienne**

If she had been honest with herself, Brienne never truly expected to find Myra Stark. She was aware that to come as far as she had – escaping Dragonstone of all places – defied the expectations of most, and she had always believed in the strength of hope, but Brienne had also learned long ago to counter, to balance, that hope with a good deal of realism. A girl alone in the wilds did not stand much chance of surviving; a girl alone with the Kingslayer, perhaps less so. It eased the burden of failure, or so she told herself.

And yet, despite the odds, Myra Stark was sitting not twenty feet away from her, scolding the Kingslayer himself over his inability to sit still as she examined the makeshift bandage on his leg.

It was…quite the sight.

Myra had told her of the attack some time in the night when Jaime Lannister had drifted off to sleep, though it required a good deal of prodding on her part. Though the girl had seemed willing enough to take her vow and allow her to remain, she did not seem content in doing much else around her. If Brienne wandered too close, whatever conversation she held would die off; if she looked in her direction, Myra would meet her gaze and wait until she had turned away. There was always a considerable amount of distance between them and a dagger constantly within reach.

The young woman Lady Catelyn had tearfully described to her had been one full of life and compassion, who would sooner see herself put to the sword than to witness the suffering of another. But war, she knew, changed many things. In one night, her entire world had burned. Brienne could not imagine the impact of two months.

That may have been why she started keeping her distance, watching and waiting as the days began to pass, though it only seemed to make it easier to ignore her rather than allow Myra to approach on her own. The girl had no interest in her. She only had time for Jaime Lannister.

Even now, with her sword and whetstone laid out, her eyes fully, and obviously, focused on them, Myra and Jaime conversed as if they were the only two people in the forest. Only here did she see the true nature of the girl break through. She smiled for the Kingslayer, and laughed, and touched him gently when they grew quiet. And when he was not looking, her gaze would remain, softening.

He had no idea how she looked at him.

And she had no idea how he looked at her.

She'd never met the Kingslayer before now, but she had heard the tales. He was a handsome man, the most handsome in the Seven Kingdoms if the gossip was to be believed, with his golden hair, green eyes, and wicked, prideful smile. He was the sort of man every woman pictured when they thought of a proper knight, despite the man doing everything in his power to be anything but.

Like most children, she had been told the tale by her father of how Ser Jaime Lannister, sworn protector of the king, forsook his sacred vows by murdering King Aerys. And to add to his dishonorable nature, he engaged in a relationship with his sister, fathered her children, and pushed Bran Stark from a window when he discovered the truth.

Brienne might have thought all the tales were wrong looking at him now.

Relief was how Brienne would describe it. She was no poet, and even in her head, the words sounded like a silly fantasy, but that was the only way she could make sense of it. The way a tired man looked when he was finally able to rest after a long day's work, the way a sailor sighed after a bad storm had passed, the way a young soldier counts his blessings when he hears that there is to be no battle, that was how Jaime Lannister looked at Myra Stark.

Pure and utter relief.

That was not the look of a man who had attempted to murder the girl's brother, or one who was in love with his sister.

This was something else entirely.

And, frankly, it concerned her.

Brienne took solace in the fact that clearly Myra could not have known the truth of what befell her brother, or what vile things the Kingslayer did with his sister, or she would never smile for him the way she did.

Jaime sat up suddenly, hissing as Myra tightened the fabric around his leg.

"And you think you're ready to leave now?" Myra asked as Brienne began to sharpen her sword, desperately pretending that she was not listening. "You can barely handle this."

"It's not so much that I'm ready as it is that I need to leave."

Myra crossed her arms. "If you try and leave now, you'll open the wound, bleed out, and drop dead in the middle of the forest. And the histories will say, 'Ser Jaime Lannister, he died pathetically.'"

The forest fell silent. Brienne found herself fighting the urge to laugh.

She certainly had been raised with brothers.

"Well, that was uncalled for," a shocked Jaime finally spoke.

"If you say so," Myra replied, grin smug.

"And below the belt.  _Very_  below."

"We can agree on that."

"When did you become so cruel?"

"When you started acting like a maiden."

Jaime scoffed in mock offense, and the two continued their bickering, trading gentle jabs until smiles got the better of them and the conversation died off.

Brienne looked away then, finding all her focus suddenly directed to her sword. She felt like a little girl again, spying on things that she should not rather than a sworn protector to the woman in front of her. But despite the wrongness of it all, she felt that it was something she was not allowed to bear witness to. She was an intruder here.

Besides, the sound of her whetstone on steel helped distract her from perilous thoughts, such as the suddenly loud one that insisted on reminding her how she had once longed for Renly to look at her the way the Kingslayer did Myra Stark.

Gods, she hoped King Robb arrived soon.

* * *

**Sansa**

Had she ever been told at any point in her life that she would one day learn how to kill a man, despite the ridiculous nature of it all, Sansa would have most likely imagined herself with a sword, or a dagger, or even simply standing beside a knight sworn to her service as she gave the command to have someone executed. It would have been something out of song, refined, graceful, powerful.

Instead, she was reading.

She waited on Myrcella, ate meals quietly with other servants, and she read.

Gods, the truth was boring.

It was not that she had lost sight of the importance of what she was doing, or the gravity of it either, but at the end of the day, she was still a young girl, and reading had always been boring for her. She had always preferred to hear the tales in song, as rare as that was, or to have Myra read the stories to her at night when she went to sleep. Her sister had loved books, and spoke the words with lilting tones that made them come to life. Robb had sounded like he was dying whenever he tried.

Sansa smiled at that, turning the page.

Since openly reading a book about various poisons and other dangerous things was not advisable for crowded areas, Sansa had to get creative. She'd found every nook and cranny she could think of across the Water Gardens. However, these areas were also very well known to other servants, and she learned, quite awkwardly, that they were preferred places when it came to getting to know one's companions intimately.

Midday seemed to be her only reprieve. She would wander outside, when most others had fled to the shelter of the buildings, and sit beneath one of the palm trees. At the right angle, she could catch the breeze that drifted between the buildings and in the shade of the tree, the heat did not seem so bad.

"Tears of Lys," Sansa murmured, careful to keep her voice low even in isolation. Her fingers ran gently over the page, feeling the slight rise of the ink on paper. Distantly, she wondered if Maester Luwin had a book like this one.

She read over the contents, noting the characteristics of the poison as well as its affects. Odorless, tasteless, clear, and when administered, it destroyed the bowels. Something about it struck her, and she spent a while staring at the words without actually reading them.

There was a memory in the back of her mind, words she had overheard, but had not fully paid attention to.

Had Jon Arryn not died of an illness of the stomach, or was it the chest? Or was he just too old?

She recalled her father mentioning him often, always talking with knights about one thing or another. Sansa had always thought that was just what the Hand of the King did. Perhaps there was more to it?

Two Hands of the King, two dead men.

Sansa ran her hand over the page again.

In her heart she knew, it was no coincidence. Her father was falsely accused and murdered for a reason she did not know. Jon Arryn had died not long before him.

And then Stannis Baratheon had declared to the entire realm that the Baratheon children were bastards.

Sansa nearly dropped the book.

Was that why her father died? For a Lannister lie? Was that why she had left her home and all she had known, because the Lannisters had murdered Jon Arryn for discovering a truth that was better left alone?

Had Myra known? Was that why she fled King's Landing?

It was so much all at once.

And yet, despite how truthful it rang to her, something about the scenario she had constructed bothered Sansa.

As beneficial as it may have been to kill a man who knew the truth, surely the Lannisters would have known his death would have also attracted attention. Cersei was smart. Sansa had seen the woman at work. There was a lot left to chance, attempting to poison a man. Oberyn had made certain to teach her the benefits and pitfalls of the different poisons, how they must mimic natural settings and the person's own health. A strong, young man who suddenly began to whither away would be strange, but to come down with a sudden cough that a maester gives too much milk of the poppy for? That is not so unbelievable.

Had Jon Arryn died suddenly?

Gods, why had she never paid attention?

Who would have killed him, she wondered. If Jon Arryn suspected the Lannisters of anything, he wouldn't openly accept a drink from them, would he? Would they trust a servant to carry it out? What if something was mixed up?

Sansa sighed. This was far too much for her. Myra had been the thinker in the family, always curled up in the library or raptly paying attention to Maester Luwin's lessons. She would have been able to make sense of all this. Perhaps she would have already figured it out.

But she was not Myra. She was Sansa. The pretty, unintelligent one who'd let herself believe that being with the snobby prince was worth any price. They had all seen through him, and she had blindly followed. And what did that leave her with? No father, no sisters, nothing and no one, just chaos.

Chaos.

Sansa took a step back from the little picture she had painted for herself, and looked at it from a different angle. Rather than why Jon had died, she looked at what his death did. It brought a new Hand into the fold, one who was not used to Southern custom; it brought an unknown into the capital. It brought mistrust and deceit and sewed the seeds of something new.

Something chaotic.

But who would want to bring chaos into King's Landing?

* * *

Oberyn Martell had struck Sansa as the sort of man who could find enjoyment in whatever he did. Even we he pretended to be civil, she saw that as a sort of game to him as well, one that he took pleasure in and thus added to the illusion. So, to see him seated at a desk, slumped in the chair, looking as if all the joy had been stolen from him, was a strange sight to her.

The way he stared at the pile of papers, as if wondering if he could conjure a way to murder them, reminded her of Robb.

"You look as if you're being tortured," Sansa said, sitting across from him. She watched his lip twitch slightly as he continued to stare down the paperwork.

"That is because I am," he replied, giving her a humorless smile. "So long as I am in Dorne, my brother has seen fit to remind me of my obligations as a prince. The bastard."

Now that really did sound like Robb. She remembered a time when he had to learn about Winterfell's accounts. Myra had been all but banned from the premise, so she and Jon had taken off into the Wolfswood for the day, leaving Robb alone with their father, Maester Luwin, and Vayon Poole. Sansa remembered walking by him with their mother, and how she had chuckled at her son, saying she'd never seen anything more miserable in her life.

She missed home.

Oberyn sat up in his chair, his demeanor becoming serious again. "Are you armed?"

"No," she replied, remembering her lessons. She'd replied too quickly once and he threw a date at her. It didn't matter that she actually wasn't armed. That was not the point.

Now he actually looked amused. "Never answer directly, unless you plan on challenging a person. Did you listen to the conversations in King's Landing, and I mean truly listen? There is a reason why nobles speak so much. The more you say, the less you are actually telling.

"Words like yes and no are so grounded, like night and day. It is either right or wrong. But turn a word into a sentence or a paragraph, and suddenly it is only a little wrong, or a little right, or it is nothing at all.

"Now, Sansa Stark, tell me, are you armed?"

He allowed her time to think.

"Why would I be?" she asked. "Weapons aren't allowed in the Water Gardens."

Oberyn smirked. "Better."

It was all so strange, but Sansa did feel a familiarity in the words. She recalled many people speaking in such ways, and had always taken them at face value. Had she heard her statement before, she would have assumed that meant she was not armed. If weapons aren't allowed, then clearly she did not have one. But she did not actually say that.

Funny how a person's own beliefs could change the meaning of things.

As it fell quiet, Sansa saw Oberyn slowly reach for a piece of paper. She watched as he read over the words, his lips moving ever so slightly. The emotions playing in his eyes were fascinating, as were the subtle changes in his expression, a small raise of the eyebrow, a little twitch of the lip. She wondered if he had let his guard down around her, or if she had begun to notice things more.

Sansa couldn't say she felt particularly welcome in Dorne yet, especially when she had the misfortune of running into Oberyn's daughters, but it was obvious a good deal of tension had been released.

She had yet to decide if that was a good thing.

"May I ask you something?"

Oberyn ran a hand over his face. "If it is about the import taxation of figs, I'd rather you not."

Sansa smiled, though it quickly faded. "It's personal."

"I don't see why not. Unlike you Northerners, we are far more open about these things."

Despite the invitation, Sansa was silent for a long time, gathering the courage to say the words. It was not that she did not know how he would react – in fact, she'd spent a lot of time imagining that particular scenario – but rather if she had any right to ask at all. Even for the Dornish, she knew there were subjects that were best left alone, and this was perhaps the biggest of them all.

"What did you do when…when you found out about Princess Elia?"

The man before her went utterly still.

Sansa had never been curious about Elia Martell's death. It was and always had been a tragedy, and she had been content to leave it at that. But as her thoughts swirled around the conspiracy that her family had been wrapped up in, that she had remained ignorant of for far too long, Sansa realized that she had nearly torn her book in two thinking over it.

She knew anger, or at least a young woman's anger. The anger at a younger sibling for ruining something, or at a parent for not understanding, but this was something else, something deeper. It wasn't there, not all the time, but every now and again, it would take hold of her, and she was more than willing to allow it to take control; it was what allowed her to attack Sandor Clegane and what drove her to stand up to the Sand Snakes.

As good as it had been to her, Sansa wondered if she wasn't giving it too much power.

Here in Dorne, there was at least one man who could understand what she spoke of, and he was currently staring her down with an intense fury. Not focused at her, not really, but at the memory, at the idea of its very existence. It was how she felt whenever someone mentioned her father.

Oberyn sighed, standing. If there had been a test, she must have passed.

"I was in the Free City of Norvos at the time," he replied slowly, grabbing at the wine glass on the desk and drinking from it. "I don't remember why I was there or what I was doing at the time. The only thing I can recall is how ridiculous the mustache looked on the man who broke the news to me.

"And then, there was rage. No images, just an all-consuming feeling. The next thing I remember is the Dornish fleet cutting me off on the Narrow Sea. My brother always did know me well. Had he not stopped me, I would have walked up the steps of the Red Keep myself and taken what was owed me."

"I saw him when I left," Sansa replied, recalling a vile pair of green eyes. "Joffrey was right there at the docks. He couldn't have been more than twenty feet away, and he had no idea that I was watching him. I could have killed him."

Oberyn's smile was strange. "You would have died instead."

"How do you stop it?" she asked.

For once, the Red Viper looked unsure.

"You don't. You simply find someone who is willing to stop you."

She watched Oberyn walk to the open arch behind his desk. He leaned against the pillar, looking out over the palms and buildings that made up the Water Gardens. If she had grown to know anything about him, it was that he knew when she had more to say. He never pushed it, though, giving what privacy he could so that she could mull over her thoughts.

"Did you still want Robert dead?"

He didn't tense, but when Oberyn glanced back over his shoulder, she could see viciousness in his eyes. "That is a dangerous question to ask."

And she knew that. But as Sansa remembered her father's death, she wondered at how the king had died at all. Cersei and Joffrey claimed her father murdered Robert, but since that was not true, who had? He had been stabbed, violently, and despite Joffrey's nature, Sansa knew he would not have done it, he had loved the man he called father, in his own way, and she knew Cersei would never have the chance. Robert was a large man. There were few who could actually manage that. It could have been his kingsguard, she knew, or it could have been someone else…

Like a handmaiden who worked for the queen and arrived to save her life just in time.

Was she shaking?

"I don't…" Sansa started. "I don't mean to entrap anyone or expose them. The Lannisters killed my father, and what they did got Robert killed as well, I know that, I just…I want to know why everything happened the way it did.

"Wouldn't you want to ask Rhaegar why?"

* * *

**Jaime**

He recalled having an easier time walking when drunk.

With a sigh, Jaime resigned himself to the dirt once more. Myra helped him sit down, taking as much pressure off his leg that she could. She was certainly a better companion for it than Tyrion ever had been. During that drunken stupor, he'd mistakenly believed his brother to be a good foot taller than he was, and promptly toppled to the floor when he attempted to lean on air.

The memory should have made him smile, but it only served to deepen his scowl.

From the other side of the camp, the wench was watching. She was always watching, more a guard dog than the three direwolves they had roaming about. There wasn't a smile on her face – how horrid  _that_  would look – but Jaime knew she gained some satisfaction from seeing him fail. No amount of supposed honor in the world could keep a man from enjoying the sight of his struggling enemy, especially one called the Kingslayer.

Although she wasn't a man, or so she said.

She almost made him miss Ned Stark. At least he was tolerable to look at.

"You sat of your own accord this time," Myra said with a smile, sitting next to him. "I'd say that's progress."

Jaime snorted, remembering all the times his knee gave out. Myra was strong, but not so much that he hadn't found himself face first in the dirt a few times. He still remembered how she laughed when she peeled a leaf from his forehead; he might have even enjoyed it then if the brute had not been watching, but there the Lady Brienne of Tarth remained, watching him as if he was going to stab Myra at any moment.

Never mind that he had nearly died for the woman.

"It's not enough," Jaime mumbled, trying to ignore the stern glare of his father in the back of his mind. How pathetic he would have looked to him, relying on a woman for help; how shameful. What an unworthy heir.

Though he wasn't his heir, despite his father's attempts to say otherwise. The realm may have trembled in fear of Tywin Lannister, but it took pride in its ability to tell him, 'no, not this time.'

"It will be," Myra replied, though her attempts at reassurance would have fared better if she had not sounded so defeated.

Jaime motioned at Brienne as the monstrous woman walked off into the forest. "Is that going to be a problem?"

The woman rolled her eyes at his choice of words, but let it be.

"She swore her sword to me."

"Which conveniently does not involve  _me_."

In a way, he supposed he couldn't blame her. Who wouldn't jump at the opportunity to have the Kingslayer as their captive? And wouldn't Robb Stark love to tell his father how a woman took down the greatest sword in the Seven Kingdoms, even if he was too injured to stand properly. If it weren't for Myra, he'd probably be tied to a tree somewhere.

The wench was lucky he was wounded. Two sword strokes and he could quickly solve their problem.

Myra shook her head, and it reminded Jaime that she was just as unhappy about this particular turn of events as he was. It was a strange thing. Before everything had fallen apart at the inn, he could vividly recall being overjoyed at the prospect of returning to King's Landing. Myra Stark did not look like a woman on the verge of reuniting with her brother.

She looked torn.

"I'm not you…" she whispered, so softly he almost did not catch the words. Her lips trembled slightly, and he almost asked her what she meant. But then something changed. She became still suddenly. He watched her jaw clench, bold determination settling on her features.

Myra stood then, and offered her hand.

"Get off the ground, Jaime."

It took him half a moment to understand, and in the next they were up again. While his arm was still slung over her shoulder, it was clear Myra was not going to hold as much weight as before. She wanted to test him, it seemed.

Brienne's horse was grazing not thirty feet away, but it might have been thirty miles. Every step he took made his thigh feel as if it were about to burst, and when relieved of the weight, it throbbed something terrible, the trembling making its way up his body. It took all the strength he had just to keep himself from giving in to his knee's plea to fall to the ground and take the pressure off.

She left him alone to wobble against the slight breeze in order to ready the horse. Like every other creature they seemed to come across, it took quickly to her, and obeyed her nonverbal commands as if she had trained it herself. Jaime found the horse slowly lying down for him, so he could climb onto the saddle.

Even then, it was a difficult and awkward affair.

He could neither put all his weight on the wounded leg nor swing it across the horse unless he wanted to experience a whole new kind of pain. Instead, he settled for sitting on the saddle and shuffling his left leg slowly over the front, attempting not to kick the horse in the process. Something told Jaime he looked as idiotic as he felt, but Myra made no indication that she noticed. Her mouth was set in a firm line, one of utter concentration.

"My lady!"

Jaime rolled his eyes. The wench certainly had good timing.

Brienne stalked across the camp, her hand on the hilt of her sword. Myra stepped in front of the horse, grabbing the reins. She looked about ready to throw herself at the woman.

Noticing this, Jaime watched Brienne slow. "My lady, the Kingslayer should remain."

"His name is Jaime Lannister," Myra stated, her voice a command that demanded respect. He was reminded of Robert again, and how she had shouted him down for the same reason. "And he is leaving."

Myra gave the horse a quick nudge and the creature stood, jostling Jaime. His thigh felt as though it was on fire, but he held his tongue. The wench would not get anything from him.

"My lady, I must insist."

She hadn't drawn her sword, but Jaime saw it move, just slightly.

"You insist?" Myra echoed, affronted. "You swore your sword to me."

"And I swore an oath to your mother."

"To bring  _me_  back to them! Did you swear to my mother that you would bring her Jaime Lannister? Did you swear to my brother?"

Brienne hesitated and Jaime felt a ghost of a smile on his face. Myra had her.

"No, my lady."

Myra drew herself up to her full height. Even before the enormity that was Lady Brienne, she suddenly appeared taller.

"Then on your honor, you will not stop him."

Brienne released her sword, lowering her head in submission. "As you command, my lady."

Jaime watched the wench slink off back to her side of the camp, his good feelings at her failure diminishing quickly when he saw Myra's shoulders sag. Her grip on the reins tightened and began to shake.

"Will you do me a favor, Jaime?" she asked, her voice suddenly so small that it was difficult to believe she was the same woman who cowed a warrior and sent her scurrying away.

"What?" he asked, surprised by how equally quiet his voice was.

The emotion in Myra's eyes as she looked up nearly floored him.

"Don't look back."

Jaime took a breath, taking in the woman before him. The calm, cool, and utterly uninteresting Myra Stark.

How wrong he had been.

He nodded slowly. "Goodbye, Myra."

Giving the horse a kick with his good leg, he turned the creature around, heading south.

And as she asked of him, he did not look back.

* * *

When night began to fall, Jaime found his mood souring, not that it had been any good to begin with. He found himself hating the sudden silence, and on several occasions he turned to ask something of the woman who was no longer with him. If it kept up like this, he'd be talking to himself in no time.

The Mad Kingslayer. What an interesting title.

In the dying light, he desperately searched for a place to dismount his steed. If he had the choice, he'd keep riding through the night, but the forest was full of treacherous dips and traps. Losing the horse here would mean almost certain death for him.

So, he looked for a hill, something he could easily get off on without putting too much pressure on himself or the horse, but the land had leveled off and was unwilling to cooperate.

He imagined himself returning to King's Landing without having ever dismounted.

Seven hells, it was going to be a long journey.

The horse halted suddenly, its ears alert. It began to paw the ground as its nostrils flared.

Something was out there.

Jaime began to search the area, but it had grown too dark for him to make out anything other than vague shapes of trees and the horizon. He drew the reins back, ready to urge the horse forward. Risk or not, he did not want to remain here.

Then it was upon him.

He'd turned his head one last time, catching a glimpse of shining eyes before the large form leapt at him from the darkness, giant paws catching his chest and driving him into the ground.

Jaime gasped for breath, briefly fighting against the weight crushing him into the dirt, until his eyes focused again to the sight of bared teeth.

It was a direwolf, but not like the other three. The coloring was different, as was the size.

Robb Stark's wolf.

He didn't know what to do. Even if the creature wasn't crushing him with its full body weight, he couldn't outrun the thing, couldn't fight it. He found himself closing his eyes against the encroaching teeth.

There was a howl, then a yelp, and suddenly the weight was gone.

Jaime opened his eyes to gray fur. Myra's direwolf, Brenna, was standing over him, growling at the other with her hackles raised. She leapt after the wolf, chasing it off and leaving him alone in the darkness.

The horse had run off, of course.

For a while, he dragged himself through the sticks and dirt, hearing the distant sounds of wolves scrapping. When he reached a tree, he leaned against it, easing himself up.

He looked around in the darkness and spotted a torch rapidly approaching.

_Seven hells._

A young face was lit by the torch, eyes widening when they fell on him.

Blinking against the light, Jaime sighed. "Don't suppose you've seen my horse?"

"Kingslayer," the boy hissed, raising the torch higher. In his other hand, he held a sword.

Jaime slowly reached for his dagger.

"Never heard of him."

"You think I'm a fool?" the boy asked, pointing the sword his way. "I'd know your face anywhere. I've seen you at the tourneys."

"You fancy me then, boy?" Jaime replied, eyes narrowing. "Go ahead. Shout."

They stared one another down for half a moment.

"He's-!"

The boy did not get to utter another syllable. Jaime moved faster than he anticipated, slicing his neck open with the dagger. The torch dropped and sputtered out on the dampening ground while the boy clutched his neck and fell to his knees. In the darkness, his blood oozed black.

Jaime staggered away from the scene, the brief rush keeping the pain at bay.

Behind him, more torches began to follow.

* * *

**Myra**

Every now and again, she would look to the bedroll Jaime had occupied for days. A strange sensation that was both relief and disappointment would come over her when she found the spot empty. She would look back to the fire, give a silent prayer, and continue her solemn meditation, mind thoughtlessly adrift.

She never failed to forget that he was gone, despite the emptiness that met her every time.

Beside her, Lady nuzzled her leg, and even Nymeria had emerged from the darkness, laying behind her and keeping her back warm against the night air.

Myra had no idea where Brenna had gone, or so she tried to convince herself.

_Keep him safe._

Across the fire, Brienne was fidgeting. She'd glance up once in a while, usually after Myra had checked the bedroll, but had yet to say anything. In the firelight, her eyes turned an inky black, giving the woman an otherworldly feel, as if she didn't stand out enough already.

She wasn't angry at her, not really. In fact, Myra understood why Brienne tried to stop them all too clearly. By all accounts, she was in the wrong. The Lannisters were at war with the Starks, and Jaime would have made an important prisoner, perhaps one that would change the tide of things, wherever they were at. But she could have been that same prisoner once too. Instead, she was here, free, because Jaime had pushed back against it.

Who was she to deny him the same?

She knew she was right, no matter what the world claimed.

Brienne moved again.

"It's okay, you can stop fretting," Myra said softly, looking up. "Please, speak your mind."

The warrior sighed, suddenly unsure. "My lady, I'm not certain I should be the one to say this…"

Myra felt her lips twitch and a distant flutter in her heart. "If it is bad news, by all means, say it. It doesn't matter whose voice tells me. The outcome is still the same."

Brienne nodded, taking a breath. "My lady, the kingsla…Ser Jaime, is the reason that your brother-"

"Fell from the tower? I know," Myra said, almost smiling at the look that crossed Brienne's face. For some reason, she found it funny. "I know that the queen is his lover, and that he is the father of her children."

"Then why did you release him?"

"Because I know everything else."

It was hard to put to words, the reason she knew she was right; it was almost a compulsion, a command from something deep within. It defied all the laws of man, ringing truer than any rules or oaths or scripture; it was something solid, despite its nonexistent form, that she could grab hold of and put her faith in. It was what kept her from feeling guilty in the eyes of the woman before her.

"I'm afraid I don't follow."

Myra scratched Lady behind the ear. "Even if you could, I don't think you want to. I know that the Lannisters are the enemy, Lady Brienne, but Jaime is not my enemy. Despite everything, he's a good man."

Brienne frowned.

"I know that look," Myra continued, grabbing at the grass beneath her feet, tossing the blades into the fire. "My father wore it on several occasions. I always used to think he could smell the dishonor on a person, like one of the hounds in the stables. It used to terrify me to the point where I could never tell him a lie."

It was the face her father made whenever she mentioned Jaime Lannister. She'd never thought much on it then, but now, reflecting on everything, Myra realized she'd come to dislike that face. It was the face of Northern stubbornness, the kind that would never give way no matter how the winds blew; it was the sort of stubbornness her mother had clung to whenever she stood up for her half-brother, and now it was the kind that Brienne held fast to as she half-heartedly explained her reasoning.

"Good men have honor," Brienne stated flatly, as if there was nothing else to explain on the matter.

"Perhaps to you. Maybe even to me once, but I've come to realize the world is far more complicated than I was raised to believe." Myra paused, wondering if she should continue. She found herself biting her lip, and heard Jaime chuckling over how she was thinking too hard. "Tell me, Lady Brienne, how many lives is your honor worth?"

Whatever her answer may have been, Myra never got to hear it.

There was a shuffling in the forest. Brienne stood, sword drawn in an instant, but it was only Brenna emerging from the undergrowth. Myra held a hand out to the enormous creature, smiling as the wolf leaned in to her.

"Where have you been?" she asked, noting several droplets of blood on her fur. She did her best to crush the fear. Brenna would know if something was wrong.

In response, the direwolf snorted and then turned back to the forest. Another pair of eyes was watching from the darkness, slowly emerging into the light of the fire.

Myra blinked. "Grey Wind?"

The direwolf, who was indeed smaller than Brenna, if only slightly, approached slowly. He, too, had some blood on him, but it barely registered to Myra as she held her hand out. She watched him sniff her palm, and then lick it.

"How…how are you…?"

Then she heard the horses.

When she had returned from the Dreadfort, after all those miserable days confined to a bed, clinging to life, Robb had ridden out to her. He had been told to stay home, because he was lord in their father's stead, but no force in the entire world was going to stop him from seeing her as soon as they were spotted on the horizon.

He'd ridden his horse so hard and so fast, she thought the poor thing might lose its footing and send them both into the ground, but Robb's horse had always been a confident thing, and could never be pushed harder than it knew it could handle. Arya and Jon, as it turned out, had been riding with him at the beginning, but he'd left them behind long ago. They'd never stood a chance.

Somehow, he managed to stop in time to not run down the other horses in the group. Her father and the rest of their guards continued forward, while she stared down her twin, whom she had not seen in so long.

Less than a month, an eternity to her.

When Robb did not move, as if he was still debating if she was there, she had smiled.

"Hello, Brother."

Then he'd wrapped her in a hug so deep, they both nearly tumbled off their horses.

And now? Now he was dismounting his horse, giving her that same look he had so long ago, when sickness and the distance between two places in the North had been all they had to worry over her.

How different her brother looked. His hair was wilder, his beard fuller, and under his furred cloak, he wore armor rather than just leathers. He was so much older now, the burdens of the North, of a crown, resting hard upon him. Gods, how he looked like their father now.

Myra had not realized she stood until she took a step forward, and in that moment, her knees almost gave out. She'd come so far to find him again, surely she could take a few more steps.

Yet she stilled, and let him come to her.

Robb stopped a foot away, looking her over. Was he afraid she would disappear, just as she feared for him?

Then he choked out a sob. "I should have looked back."

Myra nodded, tears falling from her eyes. "Yes, you should have."

And then she was in his arms.

He was gripping her too tightly, the armor pressing hard against her skin, but she didn't care. Gods, she did not care what happened to her now. He was here. She was holding him. He was home.

Robb was her home, and she'd come back to him. Through everything that had happened, she'd come back to him.

And he'd come for her.

And for the briefest moment, the world was still. There was no war or death; there was no Stannis Baratheon or Jaime Lannister, no Cersei or Theon.

The world consisted only of Robb and Myra Stark.

When everything came to, she and Robb were suddenly surrounded by others. So many familiar faces from her childhood: Dacey Mormont, Smalljon Umber, Wendel Manderly, and others who bore crests from the Riverlands, whom she had never met, but greeted her like an old friend nonetheless. She grasped hands and embraced armor, smiled until it felt as though her jaw would never function properly again, and still she wondered if it wasn't some dream a girl locked away on Dragonstone had concocted out of madness.

Myra tried to speak to them, but her voice had left her.

A large cloak was wrapped around her, and Myra thought she might drop on the spot. It was heavier than anything she had worn recently.

Robb, now cloak-less, began to speak on her behalf, though the words sounded distant and muffled. He wrapped his arm around her, his grip on her shoulder tight despite the thick fabric in between; he was not going to be letting go any time soon.

By the old gods and the new, let him hold on forever.

More riders approached, and Myra struggled to see them in the darkness.

Her brother, she noted, grew somber, and his grip tightened further.

"Do you have him?" he asked.

A rider dismounted, Daryn Hornwood if she had to guess, revealing a large form draped across the back of his horse.

"Aye, Your Grace," he replied, grabbing a chunk of hair and lifting, exposing a handsome face and bleary, green eyes. "A lion fit for a cage."

_Gods, no…_


	32. The Trapped

**Myra**

Warmth: that was what she woke to. The sort that one found themselves wrapped up in on a particularly cold morning, and had a smug satisfaction upon realizing there was no real need to move from it, even as the sun rose high and the rest of the world slogged through the weather. It wrapped her from head to toe, and left her humming in delight. She hadn't slept so comfortably since King's Landing.

Her eyes fluttered open.

Even in the darkness of the tent, she could tell it was light outside. She could make out the smallest holes in the fabric, slight gaps between the canvas and the ground. Also, the bustle just beyond sounded like quite the ruckus. Boisterous laughter, steel swords scraping across one another, shouts of jest and orders and status of the cooking. She hadn't heard so much noise in one spot for an age.

In its absence, Myra had forgotten how much she enjoyed the sound – so long as she was not the center of its attention – and hummed again as she let the noise consume her until it became little more than droning in the back of her mind.

A deep chuckle brought her back.

Myra opened her eyes fully, blinking away the remnants of sleep.

Sitting in a chair beside her – how she had missed his lurking form, she had no idea – was Robb.

She'd never considered her brother to be a large man. He was fairly tall and strong, but he'd always been so scrawny, which served to make him about as intimidating as wet paper (although she had always been biased). Jon had been the larger of the two, the more dominating presence that matched his glum look, but wrapped in his cloak and armor, Robb almost appeared a giant to her now.

His blue eyes crinkled at the edges. "That's the best sleep she's gotten since you left for King's Landing."

Confused, Myra turned her head.

Lying beside her, face relaxed as she soundly slept through the day, Catelyn Stark appeared a far different person than the one she had left in Winterfell. She did not appear to be the pale, frail woman that Myra had hesitantly left alone with her ailing brother, but she was still not the same woman that she kept in her mind's eye and pictured when she felt alone at times. Even as unburdened as her brother said she was, their mother still looked older. Myra could see new worry lines on her face, and little gray hairs that had not been there before.

Of course she would look different, Myra thought. Her husband was dead, her two youngest and her home were gone.

_But not me. She still has me._

_She'll always have me._

Myra gently squeezed the hand that held hers under the furs.

"How long have I been asleep?"

To be honest, she could not remember much from the previous night. They had ridden into camp and were greeted by various cheers, claps, and an assortment of weaponry pounded on shields. Myra had somehow found her way into her mother's arms during the racket, and all she could recall from there were tears and unintelligible mumbling in between sobs.

"It's about midday now. I wanted to let you sleep, but…I didn't want to think you were a dream either," Robb replied, glancing around. Still terrible with his emotions. At least some things never changed. "I've needed you here, Myra. More than anyone else, I've needed you."

Easing herself out of the covers, and her mother's grasp, Myra joined her brother. This was something she could do. It wasn't attacking bandits or political discourse; it was what she had been doing all her life: helping her family. And gods, when was the last time she could say she'd done anything like that?

He stood and embraced her again. It was not so hard this time, though she could still feel where his armor had done its damage, not that she minded.

"I'm here now," she whispered. "I'm not going anywhere."

How could she? She had no home to return to.

Myra shoved that thought aside. There would be plenty of time to be somber later. For now, she wanted to enjoy the happiness she had been given.

"Aye, you're here," Robb replied, releasing her and giving her a onceover. She was still in her traveling gear, she noted, including her boots. "Let's get you something to eat, something to wear, and then you can help your brother fix everything."

Smiling fondly at her adorably useless twin, Myra returned briefly to her mother's side, kissing her on the forehead and making certain the furs covered her. Then she left the tent arm in arm with Robb.

Myra wouldn't say that all activity stopped upon her exit from the tent, but things certainly grew quieter, and there was a suspect amount of eyes focused on her person.

Unbidden, her thoughts returned to that moment in the courtyard, when Robert had first met her and the dreadful journey that had become her life began. To what did she owe that, the look of a dead woman, she wondered, and what was simply the horrid luck that seemed to trail after her family like some stray dog?

Coincidentally, a wet nose at her palm returned Myra to the present.

Scratching Brenna behind the ear, she was pleasantly surprised to find all the direwolves present, Nymeria included, though the creature looked oddly skittish.

"Not sure what surprised my men more, you or the pack you came with," Robb started with a smile, patting Grey Wind. "They've been whispering about it all night. Some have even taken to calling you the Wolf Mother."

"Wolf Mother?" Myra echoed, the words sounding ridiculous on her tongue. Though, if she were honest, hearing Robb say 'my men' felt even more so. Another confirmation their father was truly gone and the days had changed.

"I suppose it makes sense. You always were a mother to us anyway."

She could hear the sadness in his voice, but said nothing of it. He probably thought she did not know about Winterfell and their brothers, and wanted to put it off as long as he could. She took no issue with that.

"Well, I'm not so sure about that," Myra replied, clinging together to her twin as she surveyed the area. "I may have to rely on you now. Seems to me you've done alright."

They walked on, Robb navigating through the sea of tents with practiced ease. Mrya had no idea how he could keep track of anything. It all looked the same to her, endless rows of gray fabric in pristine lines only occasionally broken up by some stray tables or carts. Men in armor and leathers bustled about with weapons, horses, and various supplies, bearing sigils not only from Houses Glover, Karstark, and Umber, but also over the river lords, Houses Mallister, Bracken, and Tully. They all bowed their heads to her brother, giving their proper 'Your Graces,' and some additional 'my ladys,' before going back to business.

She felt her head starting to spin.

Winterfell she knew. Stores and ledgers and whether or not to open another cask of ale, she knew. Keeping the Greatjon far away from Lord Glover unless you wanted the harvest boar to be seasoned with blood, that was what she knew.

A war camp was another beast entirely.

"Besides starting a war and getting declared king, you mean."

Only a Stark would consider a crown a bad thing.

"Well, you didn't start the war," Myra replied, feeling a squeeze from her brother. "But, yes, maybe you could have avoided the king bit. You don't have a crown, do you?"

"Suppose that I do," Robb said, eyebrow raised. "What would you say to that?"

"I'd say you'd have more jewelry than your sister, Robb Stark."

That earned a hearty laugh from her brother as he led her to another tent. This one, at least, she could discern from the others. It was larger, and bore the sigil of their house, as well as several guards posted at the entrance. They came to attention at their approach, and again murmured their 'Your Graces.'

How could she be back with everything she knew if it was all so unfamiliar?

A great, hulking form immediately blocked her path upon entering the tent.

There had been a time when Myra Stark feared the Greatjon. Besides being a beast of a man, he was loud and violent to boot, prone to all sorts of outbursts, but when she accidentally lost her temper at him during a feast – in her defense she was ten and he was  _very_  rude – the Greajon laughed, slapped the table, and declared her a proper Northern lass.

He then proceeded to offer one of his sons for marriage.

Though her father had promptly put a stop to that, Lord Umber had remained a figure in her life whom she enjoyed and looked forward to visiting, even now as he crushed her in a hug and possibly bruised a rib or two.

"My Lady Myra!" his great voice boomed, though he wasn't actually shouting. The tent might have collapsed if he were. "From Dragonstone to nearly Riverrun. If I could sing worth a damn, I'd write a bloody ballad."

"Perhaps we should all be grateful that the Greatjon can't actually sing," she heard Robb say, the smile clear in his voice.

"That has not stopped him from trying, I'm afraid."

The third voice belonged to Lord Roose Bolton, the man who would have been her father-in-law and, unlike Lord Umber, one she had never learned to stop fearing. With an utterly even voice and expression that rarely shifted, he was perhaps the most placid man in all of Westeros, but rather than calming, Myra found it to be an alarming trademark. He was the sort of man who appeared to be doing nothing, but she felt his mind was constantly turning, and saw more than he let on. It made her feel paranoid despite having done nothing.

Still, months on the run had not killed all her courtesy, and Myra found herself bowing her head toward the man as Lord Umber laughed off his jape.

The two gave her more of their incredibly opposite congratulations before leaving the tent with promises to come by later to discuss their next move.

"Tywin Lannister's probably pissing himself over his precious son," the Greatjon cackled. "Wish I was there to see it."

Myra slumped in a chair, briefly questioning why she had been happy at all.

Had she forgotten or selfishly ignored it?

Jaime had not gotten away. He was here, somewhere, a captive of her brother.

Gods, she should have let him leave earlier. Why didn't she let him leave earlier? Did she actually want him caught, after all this time?

No, she just…didn't want him to go.

She was used to him, his voice, his laugh, his incredibly rude sense of humor. Everything else was a terrible and painful unknown, even if it promised everything she had been hoping for.

And now look at where that selfishness had gotten her.

"Myra!"

She glanced up to her brother staring at her from across the war table, concerned.

"Where are you?"

At that, she could only shrug. "I don't know."

Between them sat a literal continent, a map of Westeros filled with garrisons and troop movements, and other such things that meant nothing to her. For once, Robb had the advantage there. She could make out the little figures at least. Stags on Dragonstone, Lions at Lannisport and King's Landing.

Winterfell, she noted, was bereft of any wolves.

"You're a king, Robb," she spoke slowly. Though the words had always sounded strange on her tongue, to have her brother here, right in front of her, and not refute the claim just made it all the more surreal. "When I left home, you were the acting Lord of Winterfell, and scared to death of it as I seem to recall. And now they call you the King in the North. I don't know where I stand in any of this…"

"It means you're a princess."

Myra looked up at her brother, watching his solemn face twitch until a grin stretched across his face.

She blinked.

Gods, that did make her a princess, didn't it?

At that, she started to laugh.

It wasn't a very mirthful laugh; it was just the only proper reaction she could imagine for a ridiculous situation such as this one. Her father and little brothers were dead, her sisters were missing, her home was destroyed, but she got to be a princess.

The gods had a strange sense of humor.

When she returned to her senses, Myra noted that Robb was seated next to her. His smile faded as he reached a hand toward the bare part of the map that Winterfell occupied.

"You're my heir, Myra."

Had she not been sitting next to him, she would not have heard her brother's voice, it had grown so small.

"I know."

"How?"

Myra bit her lip. "There was…an inn. People were talking. Jaime heard and he told me."

"He had no right."

She'd never seen such anger in her brother's eyes before, a fury simmering just beneath the surface, threatening to spill over. And she knew why, of course. The things the man had done, and the harm he had caused. Myra knew it was justified, and were she anyone else, she might have felt the same.

Because he was the Kingslayer.

But to her, he was Jaime Lannister.

"Maybe," she admitted, feeling her fingers fold in to one another as they shook. "But I'm grateful that he did."

They fell into silence, though she could feel the subject of Jaime hanging heavy in the air. She had to ask, but there was something holding her back, a great fear clinging tightly to her chest.

Was she afraid of what her brother would do?

She had never been afraid of Robb.

"What are you going to do with him?" Myra spat out, attempting to prove herself wrong.

Robb did not get the chance to answer as a young man burst into the tent. Though well armored, he looked more like a child at play than an actual soldier, mostly due to how scrawny he was and his lack of beard. She had a feeling he wasn't capable of growing much of one.

Emblazoned on his chest was the sigil of House Frey, two twin towers linked by the bridge that made their house famous. Perhaps he was Olyvar Frey then, her brother's squire that Brienne had told her about. It would explain why the boy got inside without so much as a peep from the guards outside.

"They're telling me I have to leave!" the boy shouted, running up to the table and leaning on it, out of breath. "My family, your bannermen, abandoned you and now they're saying I have to leave as well! What is this madness, Your Grace?"

Myra knew the look that crossed her brother's face now. He had done something, and he was deeply ashamed of it. Though he tried to hide it behind a mask of solemn duty, she could still see it there, behind his eyes. He couldn't hide those sorts of things from her.

"I've broken the pact that I made with your lord father, Olyvar," he said calmly, though she saw his fists clenching beneath the table. "Though I did not wish to see them go, I cannot blame them for doing so. You should do the same."

She watched the heartbreak dawn in the squire's eyes. The boy truly cared for the cause, and for her brother.

"Please, Your Grace, allow me to stay."

Out of the corner of her eye, another figure entered the tent, though they remained by the doorway, watching silently.

"Olyvar," Robb started, standing. His voice possessed that chiding firmness their mother used on them so often as children. When had her brother grown so much? "I will not force you to choose between your family and my cause. Go home."

She watched the boy's lip quiver, and then he straightened, shoving his emotions away like all good lords and squires do.

He bowed his head. "Farewell, Your Grace."

In a few strides, he had reached the door, pausing to eye the person standing there. It was a woman, with dark hair and a foreign look about her. They watched one another long enough for it to be considered uncomfortable before the boy continued on his way, passing out of sight and into the camp.

Robb sighed, sitting back down in the chair, the wood creaking under both his weight and the troubles he brought with him.

Myra eyed the woman regarding her. She was dressed simply and wore an apron stained in blood, but stood in the tent as if she belonged. Her brother did not question her presence, so neither did she.

Looking to Robb, who suddenly appeared far older than he should, Myra decided to bring up the dreaded question.

"House Frey is a bannerman to our grandfather. If the river lords are sworn to you, what did you do to make them leave?"

The woman stepped forward. "He married me."

Myra blinked once.

Twice.

"Excuse me?"

Robb looked up, eyes flitting between the two women. Despite the solemn nature of what she had just witnessed, Myra saw some happiness return to her brother's eyes. Perhaps even a look that bordered on dopey if she were honest.

"Myra, this is Talisa Maegyr of Volantis," he said, gesturing to the woman. "She's my wife."

She looked between the two of them, wondering if this was some sort of jest. Of course, it wasn't, not after everything that had just played out in front of her eyes, not after seeing her big, strong, masculine brother give the woman  _that_ look.

So she said the only thing that came to mind.

"Seven bloody hells."

* * *

**Sansa**

As it turned out, Dorne had been a benefit to more than just herself.

Before her life had been torn apart, Sansa spent hardly any time with Princess Myrcella, mostly because she preferred the company of the girl's older brother. What she could recall was a mostly quiet girl with a pleasant smile and equally pleasant manners. She remembered thinking her simple – a laughable concept now – and that her time would be better spent with those closer to her age, even if it was only four years separating them. To a child, she realized, that was nearly an eternity.

But in Dorne, Sansa noted, Myrcella had blossomed. Not only was she livelier, she was bolder, more intent on engaging others in activities, and even offered good arguments instead of passively standing down in the face of opposition. The princess was brighter than she let on, and saw everything. If someone made a point in an argument a fortnight ago, not only would she remember it, she would hold on to that tidbit of information until the moment that very person contradicted it in another discussion with a completely different subject, and then she would proceed to bury them alive. Trystane had given up trying to fight her ages ago, content to simply watch, and Oberyn seemed to find a lot of entertainment in defeat (though most times Sansa believed he let her win, she'd caught a few genuinely surprised reactions from the man as well). It was Prince Doran, however, who enjoyed Myrcella's newfound enthusiasm the most. They would talk until late, and Oberyn often had to step in and remind the two that going to bed before the sun rose was still customary in Westeros.

Of course, it wasn't just the mannerisms that were changing.

Myrcella was becoming a woman, and her dresses were very good at showing that fact off. Sansa could still remember the way the girl had blushed when she first put on the bits of fabric that qualified as a dress in Dorne (she also recalled possessing a similar look). Now, well, that was certainly a thing of the past. Myrcella practically flaunted her looks, something she definitely picked up in Dorne, and people noticed, Trystane in particular. It took all of her restraint not to burst out laughing when she watched Oberyn smack his nephew upside the head for a particular look. Not that the Red Viper would not do the same to a woman – or man she had come to realize – that he appreciated, but as Trystane's uncle, he'd earned the right to a certain level of hypocrisy.

Mycella was proudly displaying her newfound vibrancy as she vividly described the new dress she wanted to wear when the Princess Arianne returned from Sunspear, going so far as to twirl around as if she already wore the thing. The girl had taken a keen interest in Prince Doran's eldest child. Sansa expected that it had something to do with the fact that despite having brothers, Arianne was set to inherit.

There were many strange customs in Dorne, but Sansa found she did not mind this one so much.

Sometimes she wondered what it would have meant if Myra became Lady of Winterfell instead.

At some point, Myrcella had finally stopped moving, her focus now on a large, yellow flower in the garden. She hummed as her finger gently stroked the petal.

It was a wonder she was related to Joffrey at all.

"You certainly seem happy here, my lady," Sansa noted, stirring the girl from her reverie.

Myrcella smiled sheepishly, as if caught in the wrong. "I am happy here, I guess. I…it's just so different from home. I don't have to worry about what I say here. Well, I do, but everyone is so kind and gracious here, not like in King's Landing. The words there could be so very cruel."

The girl took a seat beside her on the bench. It was still early in the morning, during one of their daily walks. Ser Arys, at this point, had relaxed enough to allow the two their alone time, though Sansa thought he seemed a little hurt by Myrcella's lack of attention toward him. He used to be one of her only allies. Now she was drawn to everyone equally, including the quiet Areo Hotah, who reserved a rare smile just for her.

"Try not to misunderstand, I do miss my family," she continued, stroking her hair. It was a bad habit Sansa had tried to rid her of, but for now she allowed it. "Tommen especially. Mother liked to pay the most attention to Joffrey, so it was mostly us. I understand why, he was the crown prince after all, but sometimes I…I wish there was more to us than that.

"I still love my big brother, in my own way, but after Father died, things just…changed."

Sansa could tell the girl's thoughts were heading somewhere unpleasant. Hers certainly had. She could hear the chanting of a wild crowd, and her cries above it all.

"Perhaps when the war is over, Prince Tommen could visit," Sansa suggested, trying to keep her voice light. "I'm certain he'd love it here, as would his kittens."

"He'd wind up going home with three more, and I haven't even seen any here," Myrcella replied, smiling again. "Do you miss your family, Alayne?"

"All the time," Sansa admitted, not needing to fabricate a story for once. The better lies contained the truth; the best lies weren't lies at all. "I wasn't the best toward any of them, and I'm not sure I'll get the chance to make it up to them."

"You will," Myrcella said, brimming with confidence. "I know it. When the war ends, I'll get to see my family, and you'll get to go home."

Something in her tone spoke volumes, and when Sansa met her green eyes, she knew Myrcella was far more aware of things than she let on.

That was what happened when everyone ignored you. You got to see everything, and they forgot you were even there for it.

Sansa opened her mouth to say something, though she was not sure what, when footsteps caught her attention. It could not have been the guards, she had memorized their patrols a long time ago, and it could not have been Ser Arys. Even in more agreeable armor, his steps were heavy and loud. She briefly thought Oberyn had decided to join them, because he was often up early as well.

What she did not expect was the man who actually turned the corner.

He gave a quick bow. "Princess Myrcella. Lady Sansa. Strange company for even stranger times. I do hope I'm not interrupting."

Sansa took a deep breath, attempting to quell the anger boiling over inside.

"Of course not, Lord Baelish."

* * *

**Jaime**

His head hurt. His leg hurt. His chest hurt. Everything was hurting, including his pride.

Seven hells, he'd actually managed to get captured again.

Sighing, he leaned back against the pole he had been tied to. His hands were bound behind his back and his neck had been chained to the damn thing as well, but at least they had granted him the small courtesy of a tent, though not privacy.

Some heavyset, nasty smelling Stark soldier sat in the corner by the tent entrance, his beady, little eyes constantly watching him. He never said anything and never moved; he would have ventured to call him dead – he certainly smelled that way – if it weren't for the occasional raspy cough.

Jaime had taken to calling him Bill.

Bill the Ill.

Bill the Swill?

Bill whom he was going to kill.

The man did not bother reacting when he tested the nicknames out loud, thoroughly killing his fun.

Outside, the angry mob, who he assumed wanted to kill him and stick his head on a pike for the vanguard, continued to piss and moan. They'd been out there for hours, grumbling about this and that. Apparently the boy he'd killed belonged to someone important, and they weren't taking it well. They ought to be thanking him really. Anyone who was killed that pathetically shouldn't stand to gain anything.

He was surprised they hadn't barged in and taken him already. It wouldn't be very hard, and what would Robb Stark do? Execute his men for killing the Kingslayer? He'd probably grant them all titles for a job well done.

The conversations died suddenly, and he heard the sound of shuffling feet. Someone important had arrived and scared them all off. Perhaps things were finally about to get interesting.

Two figures stepped inside moments later, one so monstrously tall that it could be none other than Brienne of Tarth, while the other was a red-headed woman whose grim, honorable nature practically rolled off of her in waves. It stank up the room worse than the soldier they'd just dismissed.

"Lady Catelyn," Jaime started, inclining his head. "I'd stand and offer you a seat, but it seems I've been rendered unable to. It's a shame, really."

"It's all a joke to you, isn't it, Kingslayer," Catelyn hissed, hovering over him. She seemed much older than when he saw her last in the Vale, though no less righteous. "You kill and you maim and then you laugh it off with your twisted words."

"Should I be bitter and grim like the lot of you?" he asked. "Has that ever gotten the Starks anywhere? Tell me, how many members of your house are you down now? Because I seem to recall-"

In hindsight, Jaime should have noticed the rock in Catelyn's hand, though he doubted that would have changed anything. He was always going to rub the woman the wrong way, and she was always going to hit him.

And seven hells, did she ever hit him.

The world was spinning, and the only reason he remained upright was because the ropes that bound him to the pole were tightly wound, though he hung limply from them. The taste of blood returned to his mouth. It had been there most the day already after the beating he had received from his captors.

Yet there was a smug grin on his face when he regained his senses. Catelyn Stark wasn't about to get any satisfaction from his suffering.

"They are dead because of you!" she shouted, her voice shrill with emotion as her shaking hands dropped the rock. Lurking in the corner, Brienne looked ready to skewer something. "Because of your sister, and the foul things you have done!"

"The Seven Kingdoms were at peace for over ten years. They were still at peace when I pushed your son from the tower." He paused then, watching the heartbreak wash over Catelyn's face. Some part of him relished it; some part of him was terribly disappointed with himself. "War only broke out when you, the morally upright Catelyn Stark, took my brother captive and nearly executed him without a proper trial."

Catelyn was silent, staring down at him with a mother's fury, but he knew his point held her tongue. The Starks weren't so different from Lannisters in that regard: they hated to be proven wrong, especially from the other.

Jaime took advantage of the gap. "What? No words for that? Is this the first time someone around here actually gathered the nerve to tell you the truth? Because let me tell you, they all think it, even your brute back there. Where would we all be if Catelyn Stark had just gone home?"

Brienne stepped forward. "You do not speak for me, Kingslayer."

Catelyn held up a hand, keeping her beast at bay. Her eyes were suddenly cooler now, composed, and if he were the worrying kind, Jaime would think to be nervous.

"I'd kill you now, Kingslayer, and have your body tossed in a shallow grave to never be found. Your name does not deserve the glory your family would give it back in King's Landing."

It was strange, the things he actually agreed with her on.

"But you're our hostage now," she continued. "Even a man such as yourself has value."

She turned away then, and that really should have been it, but Jaime would not have been the man everyone had come to see him as if he didn't try to get one last word in.

"You ought to be thanking me, you know," he called out, though Catelyn did not stop. "If it weren't for me, Myra would be in the same position I'm in now."

Had she not already disposed of the rock, Jaime was certain she'd have thrown it at him.

"You do not mention her!" Catelyn shouted, whirling about on him. "You do not speak my daughter's name!"

"It really must hurt you, knowing that it was dear old Ned who sent your daughter to Dragonstone, while the dreaded Kingslayer had to be the one to rescue her. Seems to me I've done more for your family recently than either one of you."

"You were only keeping her safe for your family to use against us. Don't pretend otherwise."

"I  _saved_  her from my family."

He'd made a mistake, and could see it very clearly from the looks that crossed the faces of both women in the tent. Jaime didn't know if they were going to ask, because why would they want to know about what good things he had done, why would they wish to acknowledge that he had saved one of their own at no benefit to himself? It was a concept they couldn't wrap their tiny minds around, and he wasn't about to give them the opportunity to try.

"You should get some sleep, Lady Stark," Jaime mumbled, his voice rather pathetic. "Beating up broken prisoners takes a lot out of you."

Though she did not say anything more, Catelyn remained longer than he wished her to, staring down at him with far too inquisitive eyes. Only when it started to become overwhelmingly uncomfortable did she finally leave, Brienne trailing after her with a final glance his way.

Jaime was suddenly thankful for Bill's silent presence.

* * *

He slept fitfully at some point. His head would rest against the pole, only to roll off when his mind drifted, at which point the collar would catch his neck and attempt to choke the life from him. He made the most outrageous sound every time he woke from that, and still his prison guard did not make a peep.

It was during one of those in between moments, when he'd finally relaxed and thought that maybe this time he could get some decent sleep, that he heard voices outside. Soft and feminine, he could track them walking around the tent, deep in discussion.

"It's impressive what you were able to do for him without the supplies," an unfamiliar voice spoke. "Unfortunately, the wounds have only been aggravated by his capture, but we'll do what we can."

"Why are you bringing me to him?"

Myra.

"My brother and mother would not want me within a thousand leagues of this tent."

He heard them stop. "When your brother first found me, I was removing the leg from a Lannister soldier. Since I'm from Volantis, Stark, Baratheon, Lannister, the house names mean nothing to me, only the people. And I can tell that you needed to see him."

"Thank you."

He heard them enter, listened as the other woman spoke quietly to his guard and left the tent with him, and waited; he knew she was standing there, could hear the shuffle of her dress every now and again, but something was keeping her from speaking.

When he opened his eyes, she was staring at him, covered in thick furs and newly washed.

Lucky her.

"It's not quite Casterly Rock, but I suppose it'll keep me dry at least," Jaime spoke, not in the mood to indulge her sad, gray eyes. He wasn't in the mood for much of anything. "Well, unless they want to drag me out when it rains. War can be awfully boring and they'll need some form of entertainment."

Myra blinked, but kept silent. She didn't seem bothered by his comments or saddened. In fact, aside from pursing her lips slightly, she barely acknowledged the words. He'd traded one mute for another.

It only made him angry.

"Your mother came for a visit earlier. That would be the gash on the right side of my head, or is it the left? It's so hard to keep things straight when someone is beating your head in with a rock."

Still nothing.

"You know, I'm curious that you came at all. You've got everything you wanted. You're back with your family, so why even bother with a Lannister? We're the enemy after all, and you're nothing more than a…"

Seven hells, he couldn't even bring himself to say it. She knew him; she knew why he was doing this, and she would sit there silently taking it all until he finished, no matter how hard he tried to hurt her.

It would have been easier if she had just stayed away.

"Alright," he sighed. "I'm done."

Myra was at his side in an instant. She'd brought a small bucket and some cloth, and placed them beside her as she began to examine the gashes on his head.

"I'm sorry," she murmured, over and over. "I'm so sorry."

"Don't be," he replied, hissing as her fingers ran too close to the wound. "You tried to give me a head start. I'm just terrible at running away."

Despite everything, he saw a smile tug at the corner of her mouth. "Well, at least you can admit it."

"It's not good to kick a man while he's down, you know."

"I learn by example, Jaime Lannister, and guess who I've spent far too much time with."

He held back an unsavory retort as Myra tossed off her cloak and rolled up her sleeves. She grabbed the cloth and dipped it in the water, wringing it out as she looked around the space. Admittedly, he hadn't bothered looking at most of it. There was a chest – probably empty – and a table with a chair, lit by a single candle. The thought that some fine lord had to vacate the tent for him brought some amusement at least.

"It's freezing in here," she continued. "Are you warm enough?"

"Hadn't really noticed."

Myra cupped his face in her hand and, in his state, he could not help but lean into it. Her hand was warm and gentle, and reminded him of something he'd forgotten.

With a look of utter concentration on her face, Myra began to clean the dried blood off his cheeks and forehead, gently tapping around bruises and under his eyes. He watched her all the while, noting how her gray eyes would flit to his every now and again. Despite the cold, she was not trembling, and did not appear nervous to touch him as she did. He supposed after everything she had done, cleaning a little blood was child's play.

"My mother should not have hit you," she mumbled, turning his head over to the other side.

"We both know I deserve it."

Her eyes met his again, only this time they stayed. He could see how torn she was on the subject. After all, in that cabin, she had practically forgiven him, but she was not her mother, she was not her brother. One person could not change the mind of all the Seven Kingdoms. They were no longer on their own anymore, and had to start acting like it.

"Maybe," she finally admitted, turning back to her work. "But you're a…captive now. There are rules, and we must be held to a higher standard."

Jaime couldn't help but chuckle. "This is war, Myra. Morality has no place here."

"It has to. It will," Myra objected, that Northern stubbornness of hers rearing its head. He'd forgotten how much she liked to see the good side of things. "I'm going to fix this, Jaime."

"You can't."

"Why? Because you're a Lannister and I'm a Stark? If that were true, Jaime, you would have let me die at that inn."

"Never."

He hadn't meant to say that either, but here he was, facing down Myra Stark and her heartbreaking eyes as he told her the truth.

"Vow or not, I would have saved you."

Because she wasn't just a Stark.

She was Myra.

The woman before him sighed, her smile sad. She placed both hands on his face, holding him gently. Jaime felt his hands pull against the ropes, but they would not give way.

"Then I can do no less," she said, leaning forward. Her forehead rested against his, and Jaime heard himself sigh.

"You nearly died in my arms, Jaime Lannister," she whispered, voice shaking. "I cannot sit back and allow you to die at the hands of my family."


End file.
